Measure My Life in Coffee Cups
by KCS
Summary: Ten chronological snapshots, measured by ten significant cups of coffee in Sam Winchester's life. Gen, fluff/humor/HC, spanning childhood to post-series. Rating for language only. Written for LiveJournal's SPN BigPretzel fic exchange. Now complete, final deleted scene being post-series end.
1. Chapter 1

**Title** : Measure My Life in Coffee Cups  
 **Characters** : Sam & Dean Winchester  
 **Rating** : T for language  
 **Word Count** : 13,787  
 **Genre** : Family, fluff, h/c  
 **Warnings/Spoilers** : Vague spoilers for entire series, and specifically Season 10 (more specifically _Soul Survivor_ ).  
 **Summary** : Ten chronological snapshots, measured by ten significant cups of coffee in Sam Winchester's life.

 **A/N:** Written for this prompt for LiveJournal's **spn_bigpretzel** spring fic exchange, _Charlie brings up something else she's read in the Winchester Gospels that really surprises one or both of the brothers. Not a secret one was keeping, just something gone unmentioned even though it probably should have been._

 **A/N2:** My muses tend to take on a life of their own and this kept wanting to go in directions entirely inappropriate for this community. However, for those who like more angsty h/c, etc., I will probably be posting deleted scenes on my own LJ after the exchange, as I have like 8,000 words of scrapped fic still on the cutting floor. Also, there's artwork (a banner) to go with this fic, if you want to hop over to my LJ to have a look.

* * *

 _I have measured out my life with coffee spoons. ~ T.S. Eliot_

* * *

1.

"Daaaaaaaad! Sammy's pinching me!"

"Was not!"

"Was too!"

"Was _not_!" At the ever-fraying end of his already short patience, John Winchester glances in the rearview window in time to see a tiny hand demonstrating just what, indeed, his four-year-old son has been doing. "Issa turtle bite! Turtle bite, turtle bite!"

"DAD!"

Silently impressed that Dean has not yet retaliated in any way toward the little monster that is a bored, hungry toddler, John sighs, and cuts across three lanes of traffic toward the only restaurant in sight, ignoring the chorus of horns which blare at him for his lack of driver courtesy.

"Screw off, jerkwad!" His nine-year-old mini-me yells out the back window, and he winces, hoping his wife (God rest her beautiful soul) will someday forgive him for what will probably become several decades of colossal child-rearing mistakes.

"Dean…"

"What?"

"Never mind." He turns into the McDonalds parking lot and slides into a space near the door. "Take your brother to the bathroom and meet me in line in five."

"I wanna hashbrown!"

"You _wanna_ get moving before I make you," Dean threatens, unbuckling the child's seatbelt and giving the bright red windbreaker a firm tug by the hood.

"Leggo me."

"No can do, squirt."

"Leg _go_ me, Dean!"

"Sure, Sammy, sure. Hey look, you wanna take a picture with ol' Ronald over there?"

John rolls his eyes and moves past his now grinning and screeching (respectively) children and into the slow-moving, bleary-eyed line of blue-collared businessmen, wondering how in the world it is still another ten hours to South Dakota.

Five minutes on the dot later, a red blur slams into his legs just as he finishes tossing a huge wad of napkins into his hard-earned bag of cholesterol (if he's getting charged two dollars for a freaking apple juice, the place can afford to re-stock his glove box, thank you very much). Biting back a curse, he only barely juggles the cup holder and a loose coffee until Dean quickly takes the holder (currently full of said apple juice, as Sammy for some reason tends to throw up orange on long car rides, they long ago found out the hard way). He then breathes a sigh of relief, patting his youngest briefly on the head.

"Wait for me in the car," he instructs wearily, handing over the greasy bag as well as the car keys. Dean nods, easily corrals both younger child and food, and heads out the door as John parts ways to relieve himself.

Less than two minutes later, he is banging on the window to get Dean's attention, as for some reason he's otherwise occupied with what looks like Sammy already making a mess in the back seat. The nine-year-old leans up to unlock the driver's door, a look of slight guilt on his face.

"What happened," he sighs, beginning to back out of the parking space.

"Sammy got into everything while I was starting the car, sir."

"Well, it's basically all the same, Dean. If you don't want to eat after him I got an extra sandwich."

"Not the food, sir…"

He glances back, to see a suspect brown stain circling his youngest's mouth, and a matching splotch covering his new (well, new-to-him) windbreaker.

Sammy beams at him innocently, small teeth buried in a hashbrown held in both hands.

"You can have my juice, Dad," Dean ventures.

Covering a sigh, he smiles at his son's unselfishness. "It's fine, Dean, Sammy'll have to pee again in an hour and I'll get something then. But it's a very good thing that was crap coffee and it wasn't hot, do you understand how serious that could have been?"

Dean looks more shifty than concerned for his baby brother's safety, which is a dead giveaway, and he fights the sudden urge to laugh. "Tried it yourself first, did you?"

"Um. Yes, sir."

"Then had to pay off the witness to the crime?"

"Hello, have you _seen_ him pitch a tantrum, Dad?"

"Doose," Sam pipes up, garbled around a mouthful of masticated potato.

John blinks, but Dean passes the toddler his juice cup without a word, holds it despite the whining protest while Sam sucks noisily out of the straw and then releases it with a small pop.

"Tank you."

"Yeah, yeah." Dean grudgingly replaces the cup in the cup-holder, and sends the child a glare over top of the sausage biscuit he's currently sinking his teeth into.

"Biksit?"

"No. Mine."

John stifles a laugh in his sandwich as he merges back onto the freeway.

"P'ease?"

"No."

"P'ease?"

" _No_ , Sam, geez louise. Here, have another hashbrown or somethin'."

"P'ease, Dean?"

"Oh my _God_ , Sam. Dad?"

John raises an unsympathetic eyebrow into the mirror. "Y'already gave the kid my frea- _stinking_ coffee, Ace. Not givin' him my sandwich too – gotta resist those eyes all by your lonesome."

"P'eeeeeeeease, Dean?"

Yeah, like that was going to happen…

* * *

2.

Of course, it _would_ be raining; like everything else in their screwed-up lives, this night is shaping up to be just another chapter in an epic saga of damnation, predestined for failure before he was even old enough to form words.

He stares out of the window at the water slashing across parked cars and buses, and wonders absently at how the world can seem so much darker than it did just four hours ago – and to make things even better, if he thinks much past the remainder of the night, he's going to have a panic attack to end all panic attacks.

Still over an hour of waiting to go, and then nearly fourteen hours on a bus across the country – all for what? Can he even succeed in this, the ultimate middle finger at what's become a paternal-dictated destiny? What if he fails miserably, where will he go then? It's not like he can just go home, if he doesn't make it – that bridge just collapsed in flames, salted and burned in tears and fire. There is no going back, only forward – and that, totally alone.

He swallows hard, and wishes not for the first time that he'd given Dean some warning sign before tonight; maybe, if he had, his brother wouldn't have been so blindsided by the shock that maybe he would have at least come to keep him company, or say a more lengthy goodbye. Even Dean would have defied their father long enough to do that, if he hadn't been reeling from the shock of Sam's revelation that he was for all intents and purposes walking off the job straight onto a California college campus for freshman orientation the following week.

A slight commotion behind him startles him out of his daze, but before he can turn around a heavy bag lands in his lap and its dripping wet owner squelches onto the bench opposite him.

"Freakin' rain! You _would_ pick the crappiest night of the hurricane season to blow town," Dean mutters, shaking the collar of his leather coat with a scowl.

He stares at his brother in shock, blinking at the sudden appearance, jaw slightly agape.

"How long you got before your ride, kiddo?" Dean prompts him, uncharacteristically gentle.

"…About an hour? Dean, what're you _doing_ here?"

His brother sighs, leans back against the wall. "Sam…" Dean drags a wet hand slowly down over his face, features pinched with the same pained look as before. "Are you _sure_ you want to do this?"

Sam hunches down in the seat, shutting down. Here he had thought maybe Dean had shown up to say goodbye. No, just playing mediator between him and Dad like always – John had probably sent him, in fact, to guilt Sam into coming back.

"If that's all you have to say, you could've just said it at the house, Dean," he says coldly, looking out the window at the lightning forking through the night sky. "Or did Dad send you because he's already lost my number? Has to send his best soldier to do the messenger work for him?"

"Damn it, Sam!" Dean's voice shatters the fragile peace of the late-night bus station, drawing too much attention to their deserted corner. They both duck their heads, apologetic, and Dean leans forward, anger glittering in his eyes. "For your frickin' information, Dad told me that if I knew you were thinking about this and I didn't do anything about it, then I could find somewhere else to sleep tonight, so screw you!"

Sam stares at him. "He what?"

Dean sighs, pinches the bridge of his nose with one hand. "Dude, you are so not as subtle as you think you are, not to me," he says wearily. "You really think I've had no idea you were gettin' ready to bail on us? Really, Sam?"

He can barely breathe now, emotion curling tight and painful in his chest. "You knew? You _knew_ , Dean?"

"Not that you were headin' as far from us as you could get – really, Sam, Cali-freakin'-fornia? – but that you were leaving? Yeah, Sammy. I knew. Didn't think you'd drop the bomb like this, but all the signs were there, and like I said, you're not as good at hidin' things as you think, not from me."

"But…why didn't you…"

Green eyes lift from the floor to meet his, full of sadness and what looks to Sam's practiced gaze like guilt. "I was just, I dunno, hopin' you'd change your mind – or at least that Dad would get his head out of his ass and change his. Shoulda known you were both too stubborn to do either one."

Sam swallows hard. "Dean, you know it's not – I'm not trying to –"

Dean's lips quirk at the corner. "I know, Sammy. Why d'you think I never said anything? I got your back, man, 's long as you need me." His eyes sadden suddenly. "Which apparently isn't gonna be much longer, is it? God, I can't believe that."

"Dean…"

His brother clears his throat loudly, ignoring him. "Anyway, I dunno what all you need, since I dunno what crap nerds like you even do all day," Dean continues, in a more brisk, cheerful tone, "but I figure you need that at least." He indicates the smart leather bag still sitting unnoticed on Sam's lap. Sam peeks curiously, and gapes at the brand-new laptop sitting inside.

"Dean, seriously – thank you, but where did you get the money for that?"

"Pssh, _that_ you can thank Mr. Jacob Merriweather and his shiny new credit card for," Dean waves off his gratitude with a smirk. "No big."

Sam curiously pulls on the corner of an envelope sticking out of an inner pocket, and his brother's tone changes. "Now that, is actually from me. No credit fraud, Sam, scout's honor."

"You were never a Boy Scout," Sam replies dryly.

"Well…I coulda been. If there were merit badges for Awesomeness."

"Holy sh…" Sam bites off the sudden exclamation, eyes widening as he sees the amount of cash inside the envelope. He glances hastily around to make sure no one was watching to see him carrying that amount of money; years of practice have taught him that is just asking to be mugged later. "Dean, what the hell!"

Dean frowns. "Dude, getting a full ride doesn't take care of your migraine meds or books or…geez, sheets and blankets and those crappy college-name-hoodie-things and bus fares – you're gonna need stuff and if you've registered under your real name I can't send a credit card with you. And sorry, kiddo, but you're not gettin' Baby."

Sam chokes back a watery laugh. "Dean, there's like four thousand dollars here – what did you do, knock over a couple liquor stores or something?"

A snort of laughter. "Nah. Been saving it ever since you checked out that _How to Write a Killer College Application Essay_ book from the library when you were sixteen, man," he said quietly. "I know Mom would have started a college fund for you, and I think Dad at one point had one – pretty sure he spent it a long time ago on weapons or something. Somebody had to make sure you had something to get you started."

He blinks back tears. "That shouldn't be your job, Dean."

"It damn well should be, because nobody does it better," is the indignant reply.

"Not gonna argue that much," he whispers, blinking hard.

"Besides," Dean continues, smirking, "about $800 of it I took out of Dad's dresser like three hours ago, 's from his last Vegas trip I think. It's the least he owes you. Buy yourself a new phone and lose his number if you want – just make sure you send the new number to me…deal?"

Dean's last few words are muffled by a distant clap of thunder and an armful of desperate, more than slightly terrified eighteen-year-old, who doesn't release his choking hold until the loudspeaker overhead announces his bus is boarding.

Sam jerks back, pale and shaky, and totally not sure if he can go through with this – but there is no going back from it now, so he has to, right?

"One more thing, Sammy," Dean says, pulling out another card. He holds the tiny brown envelope between two fingers, grinning widely though Sam can see the glint of mirroring tears deep in the back of his eyes. "You stop in Denver for two hours tomorrow morning, and there's gotta be one of those foo-foo coffee places you like in walking distance. _Eat breakfast_ , and something with more than just white eggs on it, y'hear me?"

Sam swipes the Starbucks card and shoves it into his inside shirt pocket, conjuring up a shaky smile.

"And remember," Dean continues, steering him toward his exit with an arm maybe just a little too tight around his shoulder, "you _never_ make a girl pay for her own coffee, and you _always_ get her the biggest one even if she orders a skinny light no-whip whatever. I know dude, it doesn't make sense to me either…"

In Denver, Sam buys a GoFone, and spends one of his precious and expensive picture messages sending his brother a photo of his ham-and-cheese sandwich and tall pumpkin spice latte (apparently in ski country, they get holiday drinks a little earlier than the rest of the country, who knew).

 _WTF even is that_ , is Dean's response, but it comes almost immediately, and he suddenly knows that everything is going to be, maybe not all right – but okay.

He can do this.

* * *

3.

His first year flies by in a blur of unfamiliar culture shock, classes, and job searches (Dean's money thankfully carried him all the way through the beginning of the winter break, and he has little difficulty finding a job then when he actually has time to go hunting for one).

He is still too young for bartending, obviously, the favored occupation of most upper level students at Stanford simply for its well-paying benefits, but he's fortunate enough to stumble into the right bookstore at the right time one chilly evening in mid-November, and perhaps looks pathetic enough when telling the owner he has no home to return to for the holidays and is looking for employment, that he gets hired on the spot (his eager discussion with said owner on the facets and factual inaccuracies of various works of Arthurian literature probably has something to do with it as well).

It pays for his upcoming second-semester textbooks and helps him pitch in with his roommates for a meal out once in a while, and generally helps with the little expenses he had no idea he would need but Dean wisely had, primarily thanks to having to stretch the cash they had while growing up. Who knew, that toothpaste and ink pens and freaking haircuts were so expensive?

He tries to call Dean's phone Christmas Eve morning, but it goes straight to voicemail; and they've never been good about leaving or listening to those. He sends a short text message instead, nothing too personal in case his father indulges in his usual disregard for his children's privacy and is the one to read it instead.

Christmas Eve he's offered to close the bookstore, since he has nowhere to be, and so he's stumbling out of his dormitory that evening after a short nap when a box outside his door nearly sends him sprawling. Curious, he drags it back inside, as it's addressed to him. It's not been sent through the postal service, just handwritten on the outside, and clinks dangerously as he sets it down on the tiny dining table.

Opening it, he blinks at the contents, and then snorts with laughter, knowing immediately it can only come from one person.

"Only you, big brother," he sighs, lifting out the four-pack of Red Bulls. A warm, dark green fleece jacket – The North Face, he recognizes immediately, from the expensive name brands the more preppy students run around in all day here – wraps around them, and an envelope falls from its pocket when he shakes it out and holds it up against himself.

He drops the jacket immediately and grabs the envelope, nearly shreds it in his eagerness to get it open – but there's no note inside, just four one-hundred dollar bills.

Sighing, he nonetheless smiles, trades his threadbare denim jacket for the smart fleece one, and heads out to work, alone on Christmas Eve.

It's a half-hour before closing time, and surprisingly enough there's no one in the store except the couple drinking hot chocolate in the tiny coffee shop (he's doing cashier and barista double-duty tonight); most likely, everyone is last-minute shopping at the enormous shopping center up the street, with its huge department stores and warmly-lit display windows.

His phone finally vibrates in his pocket, and he pops behind the coffee machine to peek at it.

 _Sorry, dude, on a hunt n TX. Stay warm, ace ur finals next mo. Then have some fun 4 god's sake. :)_

He snorts, pockets the phone, and glances up to see a customer waiting patiently at the register. Crap.

"So sorry, how can I help you," he stammers, because holy crap, what gorgeous hair underneath that cute little hat. And those eyes. And…she just gave him her order and he was ogling, oh God.

"Sorry, what?"

Blonde eyebrows arch slightly, and a small grin appears where there was only study-worn weariness before. "Tall skinny vanilla cappuccino? That was my order, not an observation…Sam."

He glances down, stupidly, at his name tag, and then her words register, and he blushes to the roots of his hair before hastily pounding the order into the register, with rather more force than necessary.

"Three-forty-five," he manages, and it only takes him four tries to get the credit card through the reader.

Thankfully, she seems to find it amusing more than anything else, and he scuttles off to make her drink, hoping the milk steamer will sufficiently hide him.

"Jessica," he hears over his head as he stoops to get the milk out of the fridge.

"Whzuh?" he gulps.

A blond head appears leaning over his counter, blue eyes twinkling mischievously over a…very tight sweater he now has a close-up of. "My name, if you want to write it on the cup."

"Oh. Right! Yes." He coughs, and scrambles to his feet, hastening to pour the milk into the appropriate container.

 _Jessica_ appears to take pity on him and ambles off to look at a display of boxed chocolates, giving him time to take a breath, and he suddenly remembers something, hurrying to make the rest of the drink before she returns and further distracts him.

She pops up again just as he's finishing the vanilla drizzle, and he jumps, making the holiday-ish Star of David he was attempting in the foam turn out to be more of a lopsided starfish with sciatica, but hey, he tried.

"Oh, I only ordered a tall," she says, frowning slightly.

Sam shrugs, fidgets slightly to fit the lid on just so. "It's Christmas – on the house," he replies, pushing the drink across the counter with a smile.

Jessica takes the drink, hesitantly, still frowning. "You did still make it non-fat, though?"

Sam leans one elbow on the counter, and only hopes it looks smooth. "Yes, not that you need it."

This time it's she that blushes, the frown turning into a smile. She takes the drink, glances at the side of it, and the smile widens. Sam breathes a silent sigh of relief.

"C'mon, man, there's other people here an' it's, like, freezing outside!" A bleach-blonde youth in a pastel sweater whines from the cash register. Sam shoots the guy a glare that could peel paint, but when he turns around, his beautiful customer is already leaving.

"Have a merry Christmas, Sam," Jessica says softly, and waves at him before slipping out the door into the night.

When he receives a voicemail on his phone ten minutes later thanking him for the drink and inviting him to a New Year's Eve party, he resists the urge to embarrass himself by doing a little happy dance in the middle of the bookstore floor. He does, however, text his brother just after midnight to share his success.

 _Gave a girl my phone # 2nite._

8O _Finally! How?_

 _On the side of a coffee cup. Smooth, y/y?_

 _U have learned well, my padawan._

 _Thk u, my master._

 _BTW she hot?_

 _Dude yes_

 _That's my boy. Merry Xmas to YOU, kiddo._ ;)

 _Lol you perv. Stay safe, Dean._

 _You too, if ya know what I mean._ ;) _Not that eager to be an uncle yet, dude._

 _NOT WHAT I MEANT, DEAN!_

* * *

4.

It's wrong, all wrong. In all his life, he doesn't think he's ever had so many brand-new things – and to have them now, to get them just because everything valuable in his entire world just literally went up in smoke?

It's wrong.

Dean's eyes watch him sadly from their corner as he listlessly tries on the jacket, mechanically notes that the sleeves are too short (they always are), says they're fine (they never are), refuses Dean's offer to look at a different color (black is fine, doesn't show blood and dirt and ash – cinders and smoke and ashes – as easily), shrugs when Dean asks if he wants a warmer coat in case they go further north (he doesn't really remember snow, four years since he's seen it, other than that disastrous skiing trip with Jess last Christmas).

So far he's gotten two pairs of jeans, three flannel shirts, a jacket, socks and underwear, and a pair of boots – all new, Dean refused to go to the thrift store even though Sam remembers, four years down the line, they never shop anywhere else – and an off-the-rack suit for the funeral, which needs let out in the pant hem and taken in at the shoulders and which Sam refused to wait to have altered, because the only person he cared about looking good for is gone, gone forever, and she took his heart with her, up in flames on the ceiling of their apartment.

Dean finally gives up on trying to coax an opinion out of him, and with a sigh leaves him in the Impala while he hits up a Target store for the necessities – sleepwear, toiletries, all the little things Sam didn't realize he needed until he was standing helpless in the middle of Dean's tiny hotel room last night, only just realizing the only personal possessions he currently owned were the clothes he was wearing – all smelling horribly of smoke and ash – and the rubber bracelet he and Dean each owned one of a matched pair of. Nothing more.

He had _nothing_ ; no home, no possessions, no girlfriend (almost fiancée). Nothing.

The flood of panic that had driven him to his knees last night has now faded to a dull sense of nothingness, a dark lack of _anything_ that simply shrouds him in its void. He stares aimlessly out the window at the tranquil scenery of Palo Alto's twilight, wondering how the sun could be setting with such beautiful coloration when all the beauty has been sucked out of his world, leaving it cold and empty.

He doesn't even twitch when the driver's door creaks open and then shuts behind his brother with a loud slam. A rustling of bags under his feet, and a weary sigh. A gentle hand, tucking unbrushed hair behind his ear.

"Sammy, you doin' okay?"

He doesn't bother to respond, because the nothingness should be answer enough; can't Dean see that if he acknowledges anything, then more pain will just start leaking back in, and he will break down again?

"Sam, you gotta snap outta this. You're startin' to scare me, man." A hand clamps firmly on his arm, tugging him away from the window. His head turns of its own accord, eyes blinking listlessly, and Dean's worried face fills his vision. "You with me in there?"

"Yes, Dean," he sighs, leaning his head back on the leather seat.

"Okay. Look, I got everything you need, so we can head back to the motel to crash. I was thinking, maybe we could check out, and go to one of those chain places, with nicer beds, maybe a free breakfast…a swimming pool or something…give you a few days to get your bearings. What do you think?"

Dean sounds nervous, and he lifts his head incredulously. "A few days isn't going to make any difference, Dean," he says harshly. "Jess is still going to be dead, and the bastard that killed her still somewhere out there, running totally free. You think a frickin' _pool_ is going to help me deal with that?"

He wants to bite his own tongue off at the pain and hurt that flickers through Dean's expression before it's carefully schooled behind a mask of patient indifference. "It can't hurt, can it?" he replies quietly.

Sam deflates, slowly scrubs both hands across his face. "I'm sorry," he moans. Fingers press into his eye sockets, try to will away the flashing images scarred into his retinas. It doesn't work. "I didn't…Dean…"

"Dude, chill. It's okay." A hand closes around his wrist, gently tugs until he quits clawing at his own eyes. "Here, try to at least get something in your stomach, yeah? We'll decide later about the motel."

A cold cup is pressed into his hand, along with a napkin-wrapped pastry of some kind – not the healthiest of dinners, but probably all that was left at the coffee shop beside the Target store this time of evening. Sam takes a dry bite of the pastry and mechanically washes it down with the cold drink, then glances down at it in some surprise.

"Good, yeah?" Dean's eyebrows waggle hopefully.

"Not bad," he admits, grudgingly taking another sip.

"Got enough whipped cream and chocolate crap in it to choke a cow," his brother observed, making a face as he sips his own, very black, coffee. "But the girl at the counter recommended it as her favorite 'comfort drink,' so there y'go."

Sam glances over at his brother, gaze softening, but Dean doesn't meet his eyes. He takes another drink, nibbles at the scone in his other hand.

"It's good, Dean." It's actually so sweet his teeth are squeaking together, but he doesn't have the heart to tell his brother that.

"Yeah?"

"Yeah," he answers, and for the first time in the last forty-eight hours, he sees the worry wrinkles smooth out from around his brother's eyes. "Thanks, bro."

* * *

5.

Sam is not anywhere near as amused as Dean thinks he should be, obviously, to be stopping for dinner in an Oklahoma town named Greasy – honest-to-God – and it takes all of his not-inconsiderable self-control to refrain from putting his brother's head through the flimsy walls of the restaurant.

 _Restaurant_ being a generous term for the Greasy Spoon Diner and Bakery, aptly named after the town itself (or perhaps for the layer of film coating the formica). The menu peels off the tabletop with a sickening _thwick_ when Sam tries to flip it over in vain search of something under a day's allotment of caloric intake, and he shudders visibly.

Dean just rolls his eyes, intent upon demolishing a starter plate of nachos. "Just order a damn salad or something, Sam," he finally snarls, animal-like, not looking up from a half-dozen local newspapers. Sam watches in horrified fascination as a jalapeno hops out of his brother's mouth back onto the plate, before meeting its unfortunate end seconds later on the next chip in the line-up.

Even if it hadn't been nine months to the day since he dropped a cup of coffee on the floor of a hospital and tripped over his father's body, he still wouldn't be hungry after that show.

"I'm good," he manages, and only asks for some toast and juice to go.

Their small horde of cash having run dangerously low, they spend the remainder on fueling up the car and stashing some snacks in a plastic bag under Sam's feet, then keep going, not having seen anything in the papers that warrants sleeping roadside in this deserted area of the country.

Dean is used to driving through the night, more so now than before – Sam still is a little wary about getting behind the wheel at night, and who wouldn't be after being T-boned by a semi? And Dean has been sleeping even less now than he used to, his way of dealing being to drive out his pain, silent under the stars and sky. So they make one final stop after the last warning sign on the highway tells them it will be a good 300 miles until the next available station, and then he curls up against the passenger door while Dean settles in with a 32-ounce coffee and lapful of Doritos, points the car westward, and lets night fall on them, silent and starlit.

The peaceful rumble of the Impala's engine puts Sam to sleep quicker than any other sound he's ever heard, all his life – but as has been his struggle lately, his dreams are anything but tranquil, and he finds it difficult to remain asleep. Dean's eyes flicker to him every time he jerks awake, though he has the decency to not comment, only offers to turn the radio on. Sam declines.

Somewhere around the sixth hour into their westward drive, Sam is in the middle of a restless dream when the world suddenly explodes into a sudden shock of screeching brakes and painful impact, far too reminiscent of the accident those months ago.

His eyes fly open in terror as he jerks forward, slams into something warm and solid – not the dash, thank God, Dean's arm, it looks like – and flails wildly as he tries to brace himself. The car fishtails briefly, wailing madly as it rocks back and forth, accompanied by the sound of his brother's swearing rising above the noise.

It seems longer than the few seconds it probably is, because after just a moment longer, the car gives a juddering jolt and stops; his brother's arm drops, returns to grip the steering wheel white-knuckled.

But they're not smashed up, not even off the road –

They're fine.

He blows out a breath, adrenaline slowly fading out of his veins and throbbing head, leaving him heady with relief.

"Friggin' coyote!" Dean's yell out the half-open window shatters the fragile silence with cringe-worthy ire. "Swear to God, if you threw my Baby out of alignment in the middle of nowhere –"

Sam snorts a laugh, scrabbling slightly on the humid, sticky leather to pull himself back into upright position on the bench seat. "You hit it?" he asks, craning to look behind them.

"I don't think so," Dean mutters, shifting into park and flinging the door open to check the damage. "Stupid thing ran right outta nowhere into the road."

Sam watches in the swath of headlights as Dean crouches down to look at the bumper and hood, indulging each in a brief caress before climbing back into the car with a huff.

"Doesn't look like it. Swerved too quick, though, and skidded on this freakin' gravel – that's what threw us into that fishtail."

Sam tries to straighten his shirt, rucked up around his neck from his slide almost into the footwell. "Appreciate the soccer mom arm-save, bro," he ventures, his grin widening as Dean's cheeks burn.

"Shut up." The driver door slams shut with more force than is necessary, squealing disapproval. "Sorry, Baby," he mutters, reaching for the gearshift again. "Aw, for cryin' out loud – Sam!"

"What?"

A fumble in the dark under their feet, and then their smaller flashlight flicks on, nearly blinding him before the beam hits the dash in front of them.

Sam blinks. "Wow." A truly impressive curtain of milky brown is dribbling down their windshield, running in small rivulets into the vents and plip-plopping onto the floor mats.

"Awwww man!" Dean's tone is closer to a whine than any grown man's has a right to be. "That was some good joe, too!"

The radio suddenly fizzles, spits at them a bit, and Sam shoves a napkin vainly at the console, trying to mop up the mess before the thing's completely fried.

Dean is swearing like a sailor now, fumbling in the glove box – basically leaning over and squashing Sam to do it – for their emergency napkin stash, and now starts slapping the small and totally insufficient paper squares down all over the sticky dash, floor, and console in a vain attempt to stay the flow of coffee.

"You just _had_ to get the giant one," Sam mutters, swiping at the windshield with his outer shirt, then turning his attention to the seat after he realizes they are both sitting in a largish splatter of the sticky liquid.

"Bigger's always better, Sam my man."

A suggestive eyebrow and leer is not at all what Sam wants to see when his brother is literally leaning over him, trying to mop up thirty ounces of coffee that he apparently dropped while pulling his 'soccer-mom-arm' act.

"You're a pig, Dean." A well-aimed elbow gets a shrill yelp and Dean scoots out of his immediate vicinity, betrayal on his face.

The whole car now smells like burned coffee with an overlay of cheap hazelnut. Sam's nose wrinkles against the pungent odor. "Ugh, we still have to drive another four hours in this?"

"Not like you smell any better, Mr. Breakfast Burrito." Dean plunks back down with a scowl, then squirms uncomfortably. "My butt's wet," he mutters, glaring blackly at the coffee-smeared windshield.

Sam can't help it, he laughs. It's just something about the way Dean says it, pouting like a two-year-old who just wet the bed or something, that triggers something inside him that he hasn't really felt in a very long time. They're stopped in the middle of a gravel road in the middle of nowhere, having just nearly hit a desert coyote, and with literally over a liter of coffee splattered all over the inside of his brother's precious car – and Dean is hunched over the steering wheel with his backside hovering an inch off the leather seat, craning his neck to scowl at the damp leather and yanking at his jeans as if that's going to somehow help now that they're soaked with coffee.

He laughs, long and hard, leaning back in the seat and curling his hands over his stomach because it hurts after not laughing for so long – there's not been much to laugh about lately. Laughs until they trail off into a fit of hiccupping giggles that he tries to hide behind one hand, because Dean is looking at him like he's just grown another head and horns to match.

"Sorry, dude." Sam chortles, wriggling upright in the seat again. He takes a deep breath – and realizes it's been months since he actually laughed like that…probably not since before Dad died. "'S just…anyway. Y'want me to get you another pair of jeans out of the trunk?"

Dean looks at him strangely for a minute. Then the irritated lines around his eyes soften into a self-deprecating grin, and he shakes his head, flicks the gearshift into Drive.

"Nah. I'll change when we stop next time."

Sam smiles out at the dark flatlands, knowing that's going to be several hours yet.

"'Sides, wouldn't want to deprive you of your entertainment."

"It is funny, you being all _ewwww it's wet_!"

"Dude, have you sat in wet jeans? They chafe, man!"

"Hmm. Y'know what I think?"

"No one cares what you think, Sam."

"I think Dean Winchester is a pretty pretty princess."

"I think Sam Winchester is going to be walking to Salt Lake City with no shoes if he doesn't shut his pie-hole for the next three hundred miles!"

* * *

6.

The Midwest and West hold too many memories, so when Sam wanders initially he wanders East ( _Go east, young man, go east_ – as far away from everything and everyone as you can, until you maybe drop off into the ocean unnoticed), wanders up and down the New England coast for a couple weeks. Knocks off a few zombies in Nantucket (Dean's voice rings in his head with filthy limericks all the while), disposes of a poltergeist in Rhode Island, researches a useless lead on Lilith in the woods of Vermont, pokes his head over the border into a Toronto spellwork shop just for the hell of it, treks back down through the Great Lakes region.

But his travels weren't just the aimless rambles of a grieving young man; no, they were calculated as well, as everything he does now – they had a purpose. And now, after two weeks, he is restocked – in ammunition, supplies, lore, and physically as well, despite his emotional desires to crawl into a hole and never come out; because no matter how unappealing it is, he knows he has to be in good physical strength to begin a one-man war.

And two weeks after he buries a pine box in a secluded, now forever sacred, wooded clearing in Pontiac, Illinois, Sam Winchester begins cutting a cold, brutal swath across the United States, declaring open season on the entire demonic forces of the Hell that claimed his brother's soul.

He makes one final stop before heading westward, out of duty more than kindness, courtesy more than need – but Dean would have kicked his ass coast to coast had he dropped off the grid without saying goodbye to Bobby, and so he pulls up one muggy evening outside Singer Salvage in South Dakota, the Impala rumbling to a stop under his less familiar but no less loving hands.

The man has always treated them like sons, and while Sam has no idea what Dean went through at Cold Oak he can only be glad Bobby was there for Dean, if he was anything like Bobby has been for Sam, now. This is and will forever be, the single biggest failure of Sam's entire life, and while another's grief doesn't take away the guilt at all, it helps just a little to share the burden.

They haven't spoken since their falling out over Sam refusing to give Dean a hunter's funeral, but it doesn't prevent the gruff hunter from giving him a hug, more warm and instantly forgiving than their blood father had ever greeted them – the most important reason why Sam has always loved coming back here, even when it's been after he's screwed something up.

Bobby glances at the running car just behind them, looks back at Sam with a questioning eyebrow.

"I'm headed west, Bobby," he says quietly. "There are demon signs in Wyoming…they match almost exactly the ones that hit Pontiac when Lilith arrived."

A weary sigh falls into the stillness, accompanied by the chirp of late evening crickets. "Sam, are you sure that's the best idea, right now? Y'got to have a target painted on your back, and the whole hunting world by now knows some high-level demon just took out a damn _Winchester_ – y'got friends, allies at least, out there that could help you, if you just ask, kid."

Sam smiles, a sad sort of amusement that looks more painful than anything else. "Not a kid anymore, Bobby. You can't expect me to sit and play Go Fish with you for the next couple of months until things cool down."

The man removes his cap uneasily, scratches his head, and then replaces the hat with a sigh. "I know, Sam. Dunno why I expected anything different."

Sam's lips tighten briefly, but he just nods, shrugging.

"Just…don't go doin' anything stupid, all right?"

Sam's lips twist mockingly. "Stupid like Dean did, Bobby?" he asks bitterly, walking a few steps away toward the house, his back toward the older man.

He feels a hand on his shoulder a moment later, and tenses under its gentle grip. "Stupid's relative when it comes to the people you love, Sam," Bobby says, the words dropping softly, wisely, in the stillness of the night. "And God knows that boy loved you more than anybody'd think was possible."

Sam shrugs off the hand, and makes a quick dash for the man's rickety bathroom, to hide the tears he refuses to let fall – the time for that is over, set aside and compartmentalized. Now, he has work to do, and there's going to be Hell to pay. (Rather, Hell is _going_ to pay, and pay dearly, for what it took from him.)

Ten minutes later, he's on his way back outside, and is stopped once more by Bobby Singer, who wisely ignores everything that just happened, only hands him a paper bag of sandwiches and thermos of coffee for the road, and a small box, sloppily taped up in what looks like old Sunday comics.

"What's this?" he asks, puzzled.

Singer grins fondly. "Found it upstairs in you boys' room when I got home, along with this." He hands Sam a card, with SAM scrawled on the outside in unmistakable handwriting. "I'm thinkin' your brother knew your birthday wasn't gonna be pretty, Sam. Tried to do what he could to leave you a little something at least."

Sam blinks down at the card and small package, shocked that Dean would have thought that far ahead to leave it behind when they left for Pontiac – and yet not shocked. Dean loved him, no question – but they both knew, deep down, that it wasn't a matter of having faith in Sam's ability to break the deal; there just was no breaking it. Sam had made a promise to save his brother, and had broken it – not for lack of trying, but had still broken it.

Dean had known it would happen, and had still loved him regardless.

Well, revenge is worth something at least, and Sam still has that.

He climbs back in the car, silent and tense, and sets the items on the seat. Waves goodbye to Bobby, and doesn't look back.

When he pulls over to re-fuel a few hours later, he opens the card, which is just a generic picture of a puppy with a hat on it, scrawled inside with _Happy Birthday, Sammy_ , and underneath that, the two simple words, _No Regrets_. Sam carefully folds the card back up, and tucks it safely into the passenger visor.

Then he opens the package, which turns out to be a box containing what it says is one of those personalized travel coffee mugs people can order online and have any message printed on. Curious (and cautious), Sam opens the box, expecting some ridiculous or profane message to be cheerfully printed in block letters across the surface of the mug. Instead it reads…

 _My brother went to Hell, and all I got was this lousy coffee mug!_

Sam stares at the mug in silence for a full thirty seconds, before dropping his head onto the steering wheel and bursting into a fit of deep, painful belly laughter that eventually borders on hysterical giggling. No doubt, the truckers around the other gas pumps think he's a complete nut job, as he laughs until he cries a little, and cries until he starts laughing again, at his brother's completely and wholly inappropriate sense of humor.

 _Oh my God, Dean…_

He can almost hear the "Too soon?" echoing smugly in the confines of the Impala, and its comforting familiarity gives him the strength at last to pour the contents of the thermos into the mug and toast his absent brother, vowing that the message will be a promise, not a statement.

Someday, it will be past tense – he is getting Dean out of Hell.

And he doesn't really care how.

* * *

7.

Sam's not expecting this time to be any different.

Why should he? And why should it be? Plain and simple, he's an addict who relapsed – who wasn't strong enough to resist the temptation, and had to be put on lockdown yet again, just like before. And not even for something normal, like alcohol or drugs, no – he had to be the freak yet again.

Sometimes, he really doesn't think this life is even worth it, he really doesn't.

Withdrawal sucks, of course; the physical symptoms combine with the mental in a way nobody can truly understand. But the worst is the emotional repercussions – and they are worse this time, so, so much worse. At least last time, he was too pissed at his brother and Cas and the world in general to be more than furious to begin with, and then equally furious once he got out.

This time? He's just ashamed. Embarrassed. Scared.

He really wishes it wasn't another four hours to Sioux Falls, or that Cas wasn't still constipated (physically apparently as well as angelically, thanks to TMI the angel had volunteered about sixty miles back) and could angel-zap them back to Bobby's right-the-hell-now.

He can tell the symptoms are already well underway, and there's no way he's going to survive another four hours in the car, he's just not. He's probably going to just die right here, in front of his brother and the Angel of Thursday or whatever Cas's name really means, he can't think straight right now, because his brain's probably turning to mush.

They'll be cutting it close, arriving just when he's getting dangerous – and if his powers start acting up in the car, that could be really, really bad.

A cold – really, really cold – hand appears magically on his forehead.

" _Jesus_ , you're burning up. Cas?"

"Dean, I told you –"

"You said they were returning slowly!"

"That is correct."

"So can you zap us back to Bobby's yet?"

"The amount of energy required to transport a vehicle is considerably more than to do so with living tissues."

"So…if we ditch the car, you could take us now?"

Sam raises his head – when did he end up lying down, anyway? And how is he fitting on the front seat without squashing Dean into the driver's door? – in shock, because Dean is carelessly offering to abandon his Baby on South Dakota back roads?

"Not safely, Dean, I –"

"Is it 'cause there's too many of us? Could you get him home now and I just meet you there?"

Sam tries to protest, because after all, Cas is the one who opened the panic room last time this happened, and Dean still doesn't know that – does he really want the same guy taking Sam home?

"Dean, it is not the number, rather it is that the trip simply cannot be made safely with my powers at the level they are. I cannot guarantee that we would arrive in…original and healthy condition."

"What, like a transporter accident?"

Sam snickers drunkenly into his brother's jeans leg. "Last thing we need's evil twins of us runnin' around," he mutters.

A hand gently pats his hair, sort of like a cat, which is weird but actually kind of nice, and he closes his eyes again.

"I do not understand that reference."

"Of course you don't. Damn it." Underneath them, the Impala rumbles a low protest to what must be Dean's foot on the accelerator, but she obeys as always, lunging forward under his command.

The sudden motion makes what little blood is left in Sam's stomach swirl around dangerously, however, and his fingers tighten on whatever well-worn fabric they're gripping. Back in the diner, he'd fallen to his knees as soon as Famine was dead, and shoved his fingers down his throat immediately trying to throw up the blood he'd drunk, but after only a few productive heaves very little had come up and Dean had pulled him away, patting him on the shoulder and telling him to stop, that it was okay, that they had to go.

Unfortunately, he doesn't think he got it all, because something in there is sloshing around with every acceleration, back and forth, swish-swish, swosh-swosh.

He swallows hard, and the fingers in his hair tighten slightly. "You gonna hurl, Sam?"

He raises one shoulder in an uncertain shrug.

"Dude, not on me you're not." Sam chokes a protest as he's shoved upright, the world spinning around in a dizzying maelstrom of color. He groans and covers his eyes with both hands, and the whirling thankfully stops. "Am I pullin' over here, Sam?"

"Nooooo…" He breathes in, slowly, and lets it out just as slowly, feels the nausea fade a little.

"Perhaps we should make a stop at the travel-mart up ahead."

"We're not stopping, Cas."

"Sam might benefit from some fresh air and the beverage which you humans I believe call Ginger Ale."

"Guh." Sam's stomach flips, and he crashes back down to his previous position with a moan.

A weary sigh above his head. "We're still almost four hours out, Cas, we're not stopping."

"Dean."

"What!"

There's a slight crinkle, and then a pause.

"You did not."

"I was given to understand this is the proper medication for my affliction. Given the amount of raw beef I consumed in comparison to a normal human, I thought that triple the recommended dosage would be appropriate. It…is proving to be most efficacious. I am in need of a…'rest stop.'"

"Dude, you – you – just, gross. Fine, we'll stop. But if you're in there more than five minutes, I'm leaving your disgusting ass, hear me?"

Sam thinks the hallucinations are probably starting, because there's no way he should feel this comfortable when he deserves to be tied down and locked away for drinking demon blood, against his will though it had been. He'd dozed off, he thought, though perhaps that had been a hallucination too, because now he's still in the same position he was before, but much more comfortable.

He shifts with a sigh, dislodging what must be an ice-pack tucked around his neck, and blinks slowly, finds himself staring at the soft lights of the radio, tuned to a soft rock station playing at a just barely audible level. Slight movement tells him he's lying on an actual pillow now, not just Dean's leg, one of those small travel ones filled with rice or something, and there's a soft blanket tucked around his legs, crunched up as they are on the passenger seat.

There's a pleasant lack of energy spread throughout his limbs that tells him he probably has been drugged…yeah, he remembers now, outside the travel mart, suggesting Ibuprofen-PM to Dean, both for the pain and to slow his brain down so hopefully his telekinesis and so on wouldn't manifest before they got to Bobby's.

He grunts, wrinkles his nose because it itches, then wobbles upright, narrowly missing Dean's elbow when he sits up, slumps in the middle of the bench seat.

Dean is gnawing absently on a three-foot-long beef jerky stick, but removes it, startled. "Thought you were out cold, there."

"Where are we?" he asks, already feeling the fidgety, crawling feeling in his veins – the worst symptoms are not far off, no matter what measures they take.

"Less than 50 miles out of Sioux Falls, about an hour from Bobby's," Dean replies. His eyes flicker to the rearview mirror. "Yo, Mr. Ex-Lax, you doin' okay back there?"

Sam can't see Castiel's expression from his position, but the smirk that crosses Dean's face tells him what the angel must be giving his brother. It's silly, but familiar, and the comforting normality of it washes over him in a warm wave.

He suddenly feels so very, very tired, and doesn't even realize that he's tipped sideways until Dean's shoulder is bumping him, not unkindly. "Dude. Sam? You probably got a half-hour, max, until you start seein' things that aren't there, so you should probably stay awake."

Sam mumbles a dissent, which earns him a firm elbow in the ribs. He struggles upright, tangled in the mini-mart blanket and scowling his displeasure.

Dean only shakes his head with a sigh. "Got you one of those frappo-whatever things, if you want it," he ventures, nudging a bag under their feet with one boot-toe.

Sam fishes the plastic bag up and removes the bottle. He wrinkles his nose momentarily at the flavor – caramel, the one flavor he's never been a fan of, its sharp, unusually coffee-heavy tints too strong for his liking. But he's not going to complain; he's lucky Dean even bothered to get him anything – lucky he didn't make him find his own ride back to Bobby's, for that matter.

He looks up to feel Dean's eyes on him, a knowing expression in them, one tinged with resigned sadness. His brother clears his throat and then looks back out at the road. "Figured that was the only one strong enough to…y'know. Get the taste out of your mouth," he says gruffly.

Sam stares at him for a moment in stunned silence, because the words aren't the accusation it could so easily be – none of this, none of the last few hours has been. Dean is being…

…is being his big brother, again.

He twists the cap off the bottle in silence, takes a long drink of the bitter brew.

"Famine might have been right about you, you know, Dean," he says after a while.

Dean's knuckles turn white on the steering wheel.

Still huddled in the blanket, hands shaking around his precious drink, Sam looks over at his brother, leans forward slightly in his earnestness. Dean needs to hear him, and he can only hope Dean really listens this time, if no other.

"But if you're 'empty inside', like he says? Dean, it's only because you give yourself too much to everyone around you. All the time, man – you just…you've always done that, always given up everything. For me, for Dad…for everyone you care about." Sam sniffs, hating that his control is quickly leaving along with the painkillers; he's going to be a mess in a very short time. "Someday you've gotta learn to be selfish and save yourself, man."

Dean's eyes suddenly glint in the light of a setting sun-beam, as his profile relaxes in surprise – obviously that's not anywhere close to what he thought Sam was about to say. A half-smile tugs at his lips as he glances sideways.

"Drink your girly coffee, Samantha."

Sam does.

* * *

8.

Sam's been sleeping an awful lot lately.

Dean's assured him it's just a side effect of the Trials, and of being sick. ("First way I could tell you were comin' down with something as a kid, Sam – when you stopped fightin' me on naps.") That sleeping for twelve or fourteen or eighteen hours a day is somehow normal if you're battling a supernatural force that is slowly eating you up from the inside.

Sam privately has researched enough to know that whatever this is, he's probably not going to survive it. His symptoms point to some supernatural variant of leukemia, tuberculosis, possibly lung cancer, myeloma, or any and all combinations of the above. Regardless of what it is, it's purging the demon blood from his body and burning through his cellular structure at an alarming rate. He hasn't told Dean the entire truth, that his normal bodily functions have slowed to the point that he doesn't really understand how he's still alive without the aid of machines.

Dean thinks he's not eating because he's not hungry or everything smells and tastes horrible; that's only partly true. He also simply can't digest much of anything properly anymore. He knows enough about biology and medicine to know his organs are slowly shutting down, and they are running out of time much faster than Dean thinks.

But they've finished two of the trials, are just rounding the plate toward Home at this point. He just has to hang on until the end, and then see what happens, right?

Easier said than done, unfortunately, though Dean doesn't seem to think so.

He can hear the man in question right now, puttering around the kitchen. A thud of heavy bass blasts through the Bunker corridors, accented by the clang of various pots and pans as he prepares what no doubt will be another breakfast Sam has to pretend to eat.

He stumbles into the brightly-lit room, yawning behind one hand, the other rubbing grit from his eyes, in time to see that apparently his brother is engaged in what looks like a friendly wrestling match with a small redhead over the iPod controls.

Charlie finally comes out on top with a small crow of victory, dancing away with the iPod held out of Dean's reach, only because he has smelled the eggs burning and has decided that is a more important battle.

"I have to say, Dean, I'm surprised your over-compensatory macho manliness is confident enough to buy a hot pink iPod," she says, quickly riffling through its contents. "Even if it is, like, a Stone-Age model."

Dean's ears turn the color of the music player in question as he adds salt to the eggs.

Charlie squints at him over the screen. "Oh, my God. Did you swipe it from some monster victim's house or something?"

"She was a freakin' witch and we'd just ganked her, not like she was gonna use it in the afterlife!"

"Ew. Just…ew." Charlie clicks a button on the instrument and places it back on the iDock. "There. Let me introduce you to the wonders of _Pandora_ , boys."

Dean notices Sam for the first time as he finally shakes his head at their antics and silently slides into a seat at the table. "You ok, little brother?"

Sam nods. "Pandora, huh?" he asks curiously.

"Yup." Charlie pops the p, looking pleased with herself. "You'll like this, Sam. That way when driver picks the music, you can at least thumbs-down the songs you hate the most and they'll never come on the radio station again!"

"Hey!"

Sam chuckles, and raises an eyebrow as bubble-gum pop music starts pouring out of the iDock's speakers. "Somehow I doubt Dean chose that," he says dryly, as the peppy strains of a Katy Perry song suddenly blast through the kitchen, causing Dean to jump and drop a fork into the bacon skillet.

Charlie smirks, and fiddles with the stations, ignoring Dean's swearing and yelped _owowowow_ in the background as he tries to fish out the fork without getting burned by bacon grease.

Ten minutes of arguing later, they've compromised on an 80s station, and Sam is watching with amusement as Dean tries to flip pancakes like he's seen on what can only be cheesy western movies, because he doesn't think actual pancakes can be thrown four feet into the air, actually stay in one piece on the way back down, and still be edible.

Charlie gives him a commiserating pat on the shoulder as she whirls by, dancing to _Livin' on a Prayer_. Sam tries not to laugh as she pulls Dean along with her to the refrigerator, or tries to anyway.

"Whoa there, sweetheart, Dean Winchester does not dance."

"You're right, he doesn't – he sucks at it," she retorts, hands on her hips. "Sam?"

One hand emerging from his blanket-wrap, Sam waves with two fingers, smiling. "I'm good."

"Hmph." Charlie hands Dean the milk and juice cartons and gives him a shove toward the table. "Drinks, dude."

Dean rolls his eyes and sets them on the table before moving over to the coffee maker. "You want decaf if you're goin' back to sleep, Sam?" he asks, pulling down the can of grounds.

Sam is mid-yawn, so it takes him by surprise when their red-headed pseudo-sister turns from the bowl of scrambled eggs with a look of surprise. "Since when did you start liking coffee, Sam?"

Both Winchesters blink.

"Uh…I didn't. Don't. Like it, I mean."

"You what." Dean says, eyebrows raised. "You've been drinking it since you were like thirteen."

"Well, yeah, but not because I like it. It was just…there, it has caffeine, and it's not as bad for you as soda."

"But…" This appears to be a Big Deal, as Dean now has an extremely wounded look on his face, looking between Sam and Charlie in dismay as he protests, "How could I not know that?"

Speaking of, Sam hasn't had enough caffeine to deal with this. "Excuse me?"

"Dude, it's been like twenty years and I didn't know that!" Dean turns on Charlie, whose eyebrows rise guiltily over the forkful of eggs she is sampling. "How did _you_ know, Your Highness?"

Those eyes roll ceiling-ward. "Dudes. I read. Along with everyone else in like, the entire world who didn't have any idea that those Supernatural books were RPF. Or, RP non-F, I guess…anyway." She shakes her head, red hair flying. "Point is, it's in there, just a stupid little factoid somewhere near the beginning. Nobody's encroaching on your big bro status, dude, so chill."

Dean does a double take, then scowls at her, while Sam hides his grin in a glass of orange juice, which unfortunately triggers another coughing fit deep in his lungs.

"What are you laughing at, pneumonia boy?"

"Dean!"

Sam only laughs harder at Charlie's scandalized exclamation. He's no doubt going to be completely worn out before breakfast is even over, but it is going to be so worth it…

* * *

9.

Sam is a man of his word, and he is regretting that this morning, as he indeed did get quietly and magnificently drunk as hell last night, thanks to the Men of Letters' quite impressive stash of decades-old alcohol. Castiel took himself off somewhere around Sam's third bottle, after admonishing him to remember to at least pass out on his back so that he did not further damage his shoulder, and Sam is grateful for the luck that at least made that happen, as his stomach is rebelling enough as it is without the added inducement of agonizing cramps from a once-broken, twice-reset dislocation.

Thankfully, he hadn't been quite stupid enough to drink on an entirely empty stomach, as he has been so many times in the past few months, and had at least had the intelligence to eat half a burger and stock his bedroom with water and aspirin before locking himself and half the Men of Letters' whiskey stash inside after shoving his brother's dinner into his unsteady hands and then skittering away like a frightened animal, ashamed that he can't quite look Dean in the eyes for fear they won't be the color he hopes – knows – has faith, that they are now.

He's managed to keep his indulgence where it belongs so far, small favors, though his head is threatening to explode, and even after downing two Tylenol-3's both it and his shoulder are not improving; he's going to have to get the heavy stuff, the prescription meds he's been refusing to take, from the bathroom medicine cabinet.

Cole's delicate ministrations and consequent having to have the shoulder reset have pushed his recovery back a good three weeks probably, and while his pain tolerance has always been far higher than any normal human's, Sam is running on nothing but fumes now. He thinks he rather deserves a few days spent in a drug-induced haze, after the Hell he's been put through thanks to its most recent Knightly champion.

However, this means taking a chance on running into his brother; but he will have to eventually, and he is grateful to at least have one now in all senses of the word, even if he's still trying to sort out everything else that goes along with their screwed-up lives and is currently jacking up his thought processes and reflexes.

He painfully gets himself upright and moves to the door. Turns back the deadbolt and doorknob lock with his good hand, leans against it for a second in weariness, head throbbing, and then opens it, letting in the cooler, slightly fresher air of the corridor.

Dean is leaning patiently against the wall a couple feet from his door, strangely vulnerable in just a dark t-shirt and sweats – as far from the outfit of last night as he can get, for which Sam's grateful, as his brother just scared the crap out of him.

" _Jesus_ , Dean," he murmurs, hand tugging at the V-neck of his sleep shirt. "Don't do that, all right?"

His brother immediately takes a half-scrambling step backward, eyes sad. "Sure, Sam," he says, too quickly.

Sam scrubs a hand over his unshaven face; it's too early for this, and while he knows Dean's as lost as he is, he can't deal with his brother's guilt on top of his own. It's too fresh right now, too raw – and while he's never been happier to see Dean being _Dean_ , he just can't deal with it right now, and it's not fair to ask him to.

"You okay?" he ventures, a clear olive branch.

Dean's shoulders drop a fraction, obviously relaxing. "Not the one who should be asking, but yeah."

"'K." Sam turns, as the bathroom is the opposite direction, and though his skin crawls instinctively he refuses to give in to the urge to keep his front facing a threat; because he has to get used to the idea that _this_ Dean, he can safely turn his back on.

"Uh…" Dean shuffles a step toward him.

God, why would he not just…go do something, anything. He stops, rubs the back of his neck with his free hand, but doesn't turn around.

"Sammy?"

He bites down, hard, on the words that bubble upward, an order for Dean to not call him that – to never again call him that – because he knows that would do far more damage than even the events of last night did to their relationship. As much as it makes his skin crawl, his heart race with remembered terror, he's not that cruel.

"What, Dean."

"I went out earlier, couldn't sleep…anyway, got you coffee. If you want it."

Sam almost snorts at the pathetic bribe, but has the grace to refrain. He does, however, turn around, to see Dean step hesitantly forward with a familiar green and white cup, which must have been resting on the floor beside him.

He stares at it as Dean hands it to him and then retreats just as quickly.

"Didn't touch it, I promise. Anyway. I'll just…yeah. Leave you alone."

Sam blinks out of his daze at that, but Dean's already around the corner, and he's alone with his…coffee.

He glances down at the cup, reading the label on the side with well-practiced ease. Peppermint mocha – the holiday drink Dean always teases him about on the rare occasion he can find a store that makes it outside of December. The first time he tried it was sometime around the first Christmas after their father died, and it had been after a spectacular blowup over celebrating the holiday. Since then, it had become Dean's go-to _I screwed up, Sam_ apology drink, saved for very special – or rather the opposite – occasions.

However, Sam knows that the nearest Starbucks is almost three hours away, in Topeka (even at Dean's driving speed, at least two).

He smiles, for what feels like (may be) the first time in weeks. They're certainly not okay, by any stretch. But with time, he knows they will be.

* * *

10.

"You enjoyed that way too much," Sam observes mildly, as they make their way through the fire-lit corridors.

"Been a while, Sammy. Been a long while. You never got old enough to start feelin' arthritis in your freakin' kneesto know the difference." Dean grins ferociously, and lops the head off a demon he bumps into as they round the corner. "Hmm, whad'ya think?"

Sam eyes the corpse as they step over it and keep moving. "Ehh. Four points, max. Didn't even have a chance to see us, much less put up a fight."

"'Suppose we've set off any proximity alarms?"

"Why the hell would we? Who in their right minds would be breaking _in_ here? And who even has tried to gate crash the place in the last like, thirty years? These kids are way smarter today than we used to be. There's a spell for that now."

"Mm, true. Hang a left here, I think. Three o'clock!"

They whirl around in perfect synchronicity, taking out four demons which converge on them from cross-tunnels.

"Haha! Ten points, at least!"

"You are disturbed, Dean."

"You bet your ass I am," is the gleeful response, as they near the colder light shining up ahead. A dull murmur of voices tells them that they've come to the right place, and the temperature is slowly dropping back to a normal (meaning more just blistering, less brimstone) region as they draw near. One of the massive, intricately carved doors is closed, while the other stands just ajar.

Dean kicks it open and strolls in, hands in his pockets. "Honey, I'm home," he drawls, grinning wickedly.

The three fifth-level demons nearest the door suddenly find it expedient to flee in different directions. Sam hides a snort of laughter, as he's pretty sure at least two of them lost control of their bladders before they'd cleared the threshold. The current supplicant near the throne decides his issues are suddenly not important at all, not at all, and he can certainly wait until a better time, Your Majesty, perhaps in a few centuries or so, and he'll just be leaving now, adios.

Dean glances around the nearly-empty room, eyebrows raised. "Was it something I said?"

"Dear God, what did I do to deserve this?" The King of Hell doesn't even bother to sit up from his bored slouch, glaring at them with a hand pinching the bridge of his nose.

"You made us blow up the Bunker to destroy the First Demons and that Alpha Shifter that almost created a permanent open door to Purgatory in our basement," Sam said dryly.

"Ohhh, that." The King of Hell winces. "Can't blame a chap for trying, boys."

"Yeah, no hard feelings, because we basically wiped out your entire special ops forces while we were at it, and obliterated every artifact in existence that could ever create something like that ever again since it was under lock and key in the Letters archives," Dean added, smirking. "So good luck paying back those dealers you owe, since you promised them the loot from the Bunker in return for their help."

"You also brought your Malibu dream home down on your own heads, you do realize that?" Crowley asks, eyebrows raised.

"Kind of realized that when we could float through what was left of the walls and a crapton of reapers showed up, yeah."

The demon blinks, then shakes his head. "Is that why my courier from Purgatory just sent a message asking why they just had an influx of Reapers, all whining about how the Winchesters still don't play fair?"

"Heh." Dean smirks. "We don't like to brag, but…"

"You're a bloody menace, that's what you are." The King sighs, leans forward with his elbows on his knees. "But that's beside the point, lovely. Why are you _here_."

"Thought we'd save you the trouble," Sam says, tossing the demon knife into the air and catching it with one hand.

"Of what, my congratulating you on your heroic demise, or surviving to beyond fifty years old? Not bloody likely."

"You said back when we rescued Bobby, that nobody gets into Heaven that's on your hit list, Crowley," Sam says, scowling.

"True, true. I do recall saying that, bless the old man's stubborn soul." The demon sits back, fingers steepled. "What's that got to do with you lot?"

Dean raises one eyebrow, scratches his head absently with the hilt of his dagger. "You sayin' we're _not_ on your naughty list?"

Genuine horror flickers across the demon's face, eyes widening. "Good God, no – you think I want two _Winchesters_ running amok in _my_ Hell? You couldn't pay me enough to keep you two. Take your bloody souls upstairs where they belong, boys. You're scaring the locals."

Dean's eyes flicker to his brother, whose predatory grin has the current King of Hell shrinking back in his seat as he's advanced upon slowly.

"And if we don't?" Sam asks pleasantly.

"Well, then I'll…"

"You'll _what_ , Crowley?"

The King pauses, realizing there is literally no one left on the Earth that these two care enough about (save possibly a few odds-and-ends such as that retired sheriff in Sioux Falls, still a hot little number despite her age) that he could even threaten as motivation for them to cease and desist. Their pseudo-family and friends have all gone on before these two, and it is not as if he can kill them – and as for torture?

The entire regime knows that Dean Winchester studied under the first-level demon who wrote the book on torture. He'd be laughed out of his own throne room.

"I'd be willing to negotiate?" he tries, with an ingratiating gesture of outstretched hands.

Dean Winchester smiles, and casually buries his dagger in the armrest of the throne. "That's more like it."

"Commander."

Castiel resists the very human urge to sigh, one which he found some satisfaction in while utilizing his human, corporeal form. In this state, however, Heaven's conjured memory of Jimmy Novak's vessel, it is not necessary, to so display a human emotion such as annoyance - yet he wonders, if perhaps it might make his job just a bit more palatable were he more human than angel. He is a soldier, not a politician; and yet, since Hannah's abdication of the heavenly hierarchy nearly three decades ago, he had agreed to take over simply because he knew it was best to be in a position of power should anything happen on Earth which needed divine intervention.

And of course, as is common for humanity, such situations did arise. Multiple times, in fact; and it was fortunate for humanity that he was in the position to send them aid – the most important of which, being the final releasing of the Souls from the Veil, and the re-opening of Heaven's gates after several years of their being sealed shut due to Metatron's influence.

It had been a celebrated victory, and one which solidly cemented his place in the heavenly host as their re-instated leader, despite his having Dean and Sam Winchester to thank for the majority of that feat being accomplished.

He firmly ignores the twinges of pain, uncertainty and grief and loss, which curl around the manifestation of a human heart and its emotions in this, his heavenly vessel's form.

"Commander?"

Ah, yes. Isadriel, standing in the doorway, looking…angels do not feel fear or trepidation, so what then?

"Yes, what is it?"

"Commander…you have a visitor," the young lieutenant says, fidgeting nervously with a clipboard.

His eyebrows draw together, for no one visits this place of business, or at least no one has for at least a century, not since Naomi's predecessor struck a bargain with the overseer of Purgatory to ensure that there would be no 'portal' which might lead to Heaven, as there was from Purgatory into Hell as well as one back to the human world.

"A visitor, Isadriel? Of what sort?"

"Sir, it is – well, it is highly irregular, but not against any of the rules of diplomacy, and – well…"

"Isadriel, need I replace you with a more eloquent spokesman?"

"Commander, the –" Isadriel consults the clipboard briefly, "- the Supreme Dictator of Hell has sent an emissary to seek audience with the current ruler of Heaven, to discuss terms of a truce between our two warring factions."

Castiel processes this for a moment in silence. "The _what_ of Hell?" he then inquires dryly. "Has our friend Crowley given himself a promotion?"

"No, he's just lost the throne to my idiot brother, Cas."

A familiar voice rings out from about a foot and a half over Isadriel's tousled head, and Castiel's heart clenches suddenly at the sight of a familiar face, sheepishly smiling at him as the man towers over the somewhat terrified, much shorter seraph in the doorway.

"Sam," he breathes, darting around the desk.

"Hey," Sam laughs, as he moves forward to meet the angel in a warm embrace.

"When I heard – Sam, what happened?"

The human's eyes sadden, downcast for a moment in what looks like regret. "I'm sorry, Cas. There was literally no time to tell you, no time to even get a prayer out – it happened too fast, and we didn't even know what we were going to have to do until right before we did it. It's a long story."

"Not that," Castiel waves impatiently. "Isadriel, you may go." The eager young angel bobs his head and shuts the door behind him, whereupon Castiel turns back to Sam, who raises a quizzical eyebrow. "Where in the name of all that is holy have you been?" he then exclaims, with possibly more anger than the words truly warrant – but he has spent almost a week sick with worry, and it is most likely _entirely_ their fault.

"What?"

"Sam, I am the ruler of Heaven – I am notified of every soul which is supposed to enter these gates and precisely what time they are to arrive!"

Sam's face pales. "Oh."

"Yes, oh!"

"So you…"

"I have known for nearly seven of your earth days that you and your brother were killed on Earth, and yet somewhere along the way your souls did not make it to Heaven's gates – yes, Sam!"

The man looks very like a guilty child, not an "emissary of the Supreme Dictator of Hell" at the moment, and rubs a hand over his face. "Cas, I'm so sorry – we didn't think."

"Obviously," he replies dryly, still more than a little displeased.

"We…we didn't think that Crowley and his goons would even let us get here, so we thought we'd beat them to the punch and we went to Hell ourselves," Sam explains.

Castiel cocks his head, disbelieving. "You did what?"

"Umm…long story short, we walked in and took over?" Sam shrugs, looking slightly embarrassed. "Crowley made himself scarce rather than become Dean's lackey, I think he's somewhere in the Sahara now sulking…anyway, Dean took over the throne, got very little opposition from Crowley's followers after he made an example of a couple of them. Dean insisted upon that stupid title, by the way, so not my idea. He's still down there taking out a few small factions who don't like the coup we staged, but he wanted to make sure we got in touch with Heaven to let them know what was going on down below before rumors started flying."

Castiel sits heavily back in his desk chair, feeling slightly faint. "I do not…this was not in the Father's plan," he murmurs after dropping his head into his hands for the moment.

Sam chuckles, and moves across the room. "I see you still have some human in you, Cas, or can you just appreciate sensory input better in this form? What do the other angels think of you having a coffee machine in your office?"

Castiel peeks out one side of his hands, glares at the younger Winchester. "The distraction, and stimulation, is quite necessary when dealing with such events as the one you have just brought to my gates, Sam."

"Ouch." Sam grins without a shred of regret, and brings back a steaming cup, setting it on the table beside him. "Still like it with no cream, lots of sugar?"

"Yes," he mutters, and reaches for the cup with a slightly unsteady hand. The drink is boiling hot, strong as can be made – and it centers his mind for the present. "A Winchester running Hell," he repeats absently, shaking his head.

"Should make things a lot easier for you guys up here," Sam ventures, over the top of his own steaming mug.

Castiel nods reluctantly. "You are quite certain, Sam, that Dean is…"

"Still Dean? Yes, Cas. 100% human, just a damn scary one right now. He says once he's done mopping up down there he'll pop in on you and really discuss how you guys want to run things for the next few millennia. With a truce between the forces of Heaven and Hell, things should quiet down on Earth, shouldn't they? It'll be a cakewalk."

Castiel shakes his head in disbelief. "I suppose I should merely count myself fortunate neither of you have the inclination to overthrow my position here," he sighs.

Sam only smiles, and winks at him over the top of his coffee cup.

Castiel swallows, and makes a note to increase security around the building.

Just in case.


	2. Deleted Scene 1

**Title** : _Measure My Life in Coffee Cups_  
 **Characters** : Sam & Dean Winchester  
 **Rating** : T for language  
 **Word Count** : (this deleted scene) 1645  
 **Warnings/Spoilers** : Takes place sometime after _In My Time of Dying_ , though that's hardly a spoiler by now I wouldn't think.  
A/N: First deleted scene from the above mentioned fic, cut due to the fact that it was far too H/C-centric to really fit into a lighthearted community's challenge. Not really completely fleshed out, either, nor will any of these be; but I've been asked before to post deleted material I don't ever intend to use again, so if someone can get enjoyment out of reading it I'm more than happy to do so - just with the understanding it isn't necessarily award-worthy material. :) 

* * *

It's stupid, ridiculous really, and when he can think straight again he's probably going to be more than a little mortified about it – but unfortunately that tends to be the story of their lives; it's not the huge things that really screw with their heads the most, it's the small things. Small things like the particular phrasing of a sentence, after an argument with Dean; or the smell of coconuts and pineapple which he still always associates with Jessica's beautiful blond hair; or ending up in the motel room with the thinnest walls on the night he has a migraine – the little things, can ratchet up the tension, blow the lid off the pressure cooker of their lives, quicker than a major event.

Good thing, since they really can't take any more _major events_ right now.

But it's really stupid, and he can't help but be embarrassed, even if Dean's already probably explained it away with his usual suave genius. How, he doesn't know, and frankly doesn't care; he's a little more concerned with the fact that he just nearly blew their FBI cover in the middle of a prestigious nursing home where they suspect the head caregiver could be a shifter (and a con man, but that's a matter out of their usual jurisdiction).

Right now, though? He couldn't care less if the shifter finds him, to be honest. He'll be lucky if Dean even waits for him to get back to the car before he drives back to the motel to throw himself deeper into the research; deeper in, farther away – from everything, including Sam. Funny, they live practically in each other's pockets as it is, even more so now that they're all each other has; and yet, Sam's never felt more alone than he has the last couple of weeks.

Strange, how he can count on one hand the number of times he actually missed the man in the years he spent at college, but now that he's gone?

Sam never even got to say goodbye.

His phone buzzes in his blazer pocket, the screen lighting up the darkness with a faint blue glow peeking out the top. Glancing at the small device, he flips it open with a shaky sigh.

 _"Sam, what the hell."_

He bends forward to rest his forehead on his wrist, arm resting across his updrawn knees. "Dean…"

 _"What even was that? Where are you?"_

He swallows, trying to make his voice work without betraying himself.

 _"Sam?"_

"Just…" He inhales slowly, measuredly, eyes closed. "I'll find m-my own way home. Go."

His slip has been heard, however, because when his brother speaks again, his voice has lost the irritation, is far more gentle. _"Dude, just talk to me, okay?"_

Sam can't help it, he chokes a bitter laugh into the phone. "Really, Dean? After all this, _now_ you want to talk?"

He squeezes his eyes shut on the tears that threaten to start up again, dammed as they are with a very, so very thin wall of stubborn resistance. He made it all the way through the last couple of weeks with only one minor breakdown, and that was just after the funeral pyre – he's been too worried about setting Dean off, putting a match to that powder, to attempt releasing some of his own grief. Dean's been a ticking time bomb, and he's been trying to defuse that for the last fortnight; there's been no time for anything else.

And then today, he had to go and accidentally drop his coffee cup on the tiled floor just outside some poor clueless patient's room – and he thinks the technical medical term is probably flashback or PTSD or something like that but regardless, all he could see was a different cup and a different patient lying dead on the floor in the room beyond and he just, well. Freaked out.

Hence, well. All of this.

 _"Sam. **Sammy!** Answer me, dude, you're scarin' me."_ A door slams on the other end of the line. _"Where are you?"_

"I don't know," he whispers, hoarse from crying. Awkward elbows knock against metal shelves, and he sees rolls of white, rows of spray bottles. "S-supply closet?"

Another door slam. _"Okay, okay, that's good. Did you like…go down stairs or something?"_

He slumps forward, head pounding, and gives it a small shake. Then remembers, Dean can't see that. "No."

 _"'K, good, can't be that many in this crazy-ass layout…"_ A dull thud sounds outside the door, and Sam chokes down a hysterical sob at the crazed idea that maybe his psychic-ness is rubbing off on his brother. _"…here's one. Sam?"_

The door opens, and harsh light stabs into the darkness, then is extinguished before he can cough out an answer. But a minute later he stiffens, as a figure he'd recognize in his sleep – has recognized in his sleep, due to two decades of sharing a hotel room – plops down beside him on the cold tile with a muffled grunt.

He blinks, unseen, into the darkness, and then puts his head back down on his arms with a shaky sigh, simply too tired to fight anymore; to fight to keep control, to fight to help his brother keep control, to fight to make their father's sacrifice mean something, to fight against the stupid freaking yellow-eyed demon –

To fight the tears, apparently, because he can't stop that either.

A hand, chilled from the icy tile floor, comes to rest hesitantly on the back of his neck, slowly combs its way through the damp mess of hair that curls over his starched white collar. Fingers squeeze gently at the migraine pressure points at the base of his skull, then release just as gently, alleviating some of the pressure from his crying jag – then the soothing process begins again.

"Hey, 's okay. Y'need a haircut, Sammy…"

Sam hears the words float softly from out of the dark, and his breath catches. He shudders into his arms, face still hidden, at the gentleness of the tone, a softness he hasn't heard in weeks – not since before this horror story unfolded in the front seat of a car, impaled on the grille of a semi-truck and accented by blood and black eyes.

"You…wanna talk about it now?"

Sam half-smiles into his knees, because he has to give Dean props for trying, however awkwardly.

He swallows hard, turns his head toward the shapeless shadow beside him. "It was the coffee," he sighs, the words a rasping whisper from a tortured throat. "I…left to get Dad coffee, Dean. And when I came back –"

He feels his brother's hand tighten suddenly on his neck, holding him still. "Sam, are you saying he – he sent you –"

"He sent me away so he could say goodbye to you and then keep his appointment with the demon?" Sam whispers miserably. "Yeah, Dean. I mean, I get it…but it still sucks, yeah?"

He's rarely heard John Winchester be the subject of his eldest son's exceedingly creative and colorful choice of swearing, but this time Dean outdoes himself.

Sam chokes out a laugh that borders dangerously on hysteria, and that edge must register with his brother, because Dean abruptly stops futilely promising bodily harm to a man long in Hell, if their conjectures are correct, and it's really not that funny anymore now that Sam thinks about it, and _God_ is he tired of these yo-yo-ing mood swings because he really hates that he can't stop _crying_.

"Look, Sam…" Dean shifts awkwardly beside him, then continues slowly. "Dad could be a real dick, but he was proud of you, y'know? Had a crappy way of showing it, but he was."

Sam huffs a hoarse sound of disbelief, to which he receives a gentle elbow in the ribs.

"I mean it, dude. That night after you left, when I finally came back at like three in the morning, he was sittin' at the table reading the acceptance letter you'd left wadded up on the counter. First words out of his mouth when I walked in – _y'know that little bastard was smart enough to get himself a full ride? What the hell did he do for twelve years, Dean?_ "

Sam is a little embarrassed at the giggle that slips out of his mouth, only half-muffled in his sleeves.

Dean's hand tightens gently on the back of his neck. "And those random packages that kept showing up at Stanford every Christmas?"

Sam blinks into the darkness. "I thought those were you."

"Dude, no. You freakin' hate Christmas. Besides, if I sent you something it'd be a box of condoms and maybe a Barbie ornament for old times' sake." Dean snorts a laugh as Sam shoves a shoulder into his side. "Nope, that was all Dad. Never had the guts to sign his name to anything, though."

Sam sighs, worn out both physically and emotionally from the past few weeks, but feeling somehow lighter than he has in many days. Dean's hand tightens briefly on his neck, and then withdraws, slapping his knee lightly on the way.

"Now, my ass is goin' numb, so you wanna dam off the waterworks until we get outta here, Francis?"

"Bite me, Dean," he returns without heat, grasping the nearby shelving unit to haul himself to unsteady feet. Something falls from the shelving unit, clattering with a dull thud to the floor and rolling under the next shelf, followed by what sounds like a series of mops or brooms.

"Awesome, now they're just gonna think we were making out in here," Sam mutters, as Dean cracks the door, peering out at the corridor.

Dean snorts, and pushes past him into the tiled hallway. "What excuse did you think I had to give the nurse on duty for why I was following my 'partner' into a supply closet? Cameras, man. You so owe me."


	3. Deleted Scenes 2 & 3

**Title** : _Measure My Life in Coffee Cups_  
 **Characters** : Sam & Dean Winchester  
 **Rating** : T for language  
 **Word Count** : (these deleted scenes) 2600 & 344  
 **Warnings/Spoilers** : Definite and major spoilers for Season 10, specifically the events of _Dark Dynasty_.  
 **A/N:** Second and third deleted scenes from the above mentioned fic, cut because the first spiraled into something more darkly therapeutic than appropriate for a lighthearted community challenge, and the third is just a snippet that ended up not getting used because I decided on something else. Note that the first scene contradicts the whole premise of the original story in that Charlie does tell Dean in front of Sam about Sam not liking coffee; I axed this scene before writing the completed story above.

* * *

"So…that's about it," Sam finishes quietly, arms draped limply over his knees.

His legs have long since gone numb in their cramped position under him, and the unseasonable chill which has permeated the earth for the last week seeps steadily through his jeans, damp from dewy grass and earth.

"You – we never would have been able to do it, if it hadn't been for you. I'll owe you the rest of my life for that." His voice breaks, brittle with grief, on the last word, and he looks down, jaw clenched against tears he knows he doesn't deserve to shed. "I wish…God, I wish I could say I was sorry I asked for your help, sweetheart," he whispers, finally, and the gnawing ache in his chest tells him just how much more his brother must be hurting.

If this is what it feels like to be an older brother, then it explains Dean's behavior ten times over through the years, because Sam's never before felt such a sense of heartache, such loss of something that goes beyond friendship, extending as firmly into family as anyone in their sad lives ever has.

"But I – I just can't," he admits. A single tear rolls down his cheek, and he doesn't bother to dash it away, just looks down at his hands, clenched around a battered copy of _A Storm of Swords._ He'd found it, last night, in the spare bedroom down the hall from Dean's – cheerfully well-worn, dog-eared corners greeting him as he flipped through it, careful not to bend the cover and further destroy something so loved.

The silence wraps around him, dark and forbidding as the skies – even the birds are silent now, have been for the last week or so, since they unleashed a Force that hasn't yet disclosed its full intent.

He lifts his head after a moment, eyes closing with a silent sigh. "Setting a new record for paranoia, even for you, Dean," he observes in mild exasperation.

The quiet shuffling of footsteps behind him draws closer. "Last time you vanished on me in the middle of the night it was to chain up an all-powerful witch in a warehouse with, oh right, the _Book of the Freaking Damned_ , so 'scuse me if I'm a little worried when your GPS signal says you're three hours away* when I thought you were asleep."

Dean's boots stop behind him, scuff hesitantly, then plant themselves firmly at his side. Sam sighs, shoulders slumping in weariness. Then a soft clink of bottles makes him blink, only to see a six-pack resting slightly lopsided in the damp earth in front of them, soon followed by six feet of awkward elder Winchester.

Incredulous, he turns a scandalized glare toward his brother, who returns the look with an innocent shrug of _what?_

"Dean, we are not going to get drunk in a graveyard!" he hisses, glancing around to see if anyone has seen them yet – a futile gesture, as the place has been deserted since before he arrived, only the wind and a few unseen ghosts to keep him company.

"Dude. One, even if you can't hold your booze, by this point we both know it takes way more than three beers to get _me_ drunk, Francis," Dean replies dryly. "And two, have you even seen anybody on the roads today? Unleashed power of Darkness = what people think is massive tornado weather in Kansas, man. We're the only morons out in this, we could dance naked through here and no one would give a flip."

Sam snorts wetly, and after a final glance at the looming clouds overhead, finally decides _screw it_ and yanks one of the bottles out of the flimsy pasteboard. Flicks the bottle cap off with the blunt edge of his knife, and downs half of it in one swallow. The burn in his throat at least distracts from the one behind his eyes.

"Oooookay," Dean squints at him warily, and slowly removes a bottle of his own from the six-pack. "Maybe I should've started with the coffee, not left it in the car for sobering up afterwards."

"I hate coffee," Sam mutters, wiping his mouth and then his eyes with the back of one damp sleeve.

"I know you do."

"You do?" Sam is surprised at the admission, because stupid as it seems, it's a misconception that's gone on for so long he's almost forgotten, himself.

Dean sighs, tosses the bottle cap into a small depression in the ground. An ant regards it with a pissed-off gesticulation of antennae before detouring off into the grass. Sam watches it go, wondering if it notices that there is no longer really any real daylight in the world.

After a long swallow, Dean finally looks out at the shadows lurking around the headstones around them, long-lost friends standing accusatorily in the stillness. "Yeah, Sam, I know."

"Huh." Sam drains the rest of the bottle, carefully settles it back into the pasteboard container – no littering, even if the environment's probably already shot to a new toxic hell thanks to their latest escapade – and reaches for another one.

A hand on his wrist stops him. "You wanna know how I found out?"

Sam snags the bottle, maneuvers out from under the grip with practiced ease. Maybe if he gets another twelve ounces of alcohol in him, everything will be as dulled as the gray sky and grayer world around them. "Don't really care, Dean."

Dean takes another drink, then sets the bottle back in the cardboard holder, only half-empty. He stares at the small bobblehead in front of them, blinks rapidly as if trying to synchronize the movements. "She told me, Sammy."

Sam freezes, bottle halfway to his lips.

"Back when you were almost done with the Trials, y'know?" Dean is rambling at this point, picking aimlessly at a blade of grass in front of him. "I was making breakfast one morning right after we got back from dealing with those Djinns, and said something about not bein' able to convince you to eat or drink anything for two days – and she goes and tells me I've been makin' my baby brother's wake-up juice wrong for like, ten years."

Sam turns his head, sees tears shining unshed in Dean's eyes, as he stares unblinking at the bobblehead and its slightly soothing, swaying motion. His brother senses the look, and turns to glance at him. "Those friggin' _Supernatural_ books, Sam – one stupid little thing, and she knew you better than I did."

Sam swallows, looks down at the bottle in his hands. "That the morning you brought me that awful burnt latte with my breakfast in bed?" he asks, a small smile twitching at his lips for the first time in what feels like – probably is – days.

A calloused hand cuffs the back of his head with infinite gentleness. "Shut up. 'S a bitch to try and froth milk without a real espresso maker, and she was messing up my kitchen _on purpose_ when my back was turned…you know what, Sam, seriously? Screw you."

Sam chokes down the snicker trying to escape, because it's really not a laughing matter and it feels like sacrilege here; but it's been proven from the beginning of time that humor heals the soul faster than grief – and God knows, their souls need all the healing they can get. Dean's shoulders shake once with a small ripple of amusement, and their elbows bump companionably, the silence not quite as dark and choking as before.

After a few moments, Sam slowly takes another long swallow of his second bottle, still trying to numb the pain deep in his heart. Beside him, Dean shifts uneasily, and finally speaks, in a tone that is full of regret, one that easily cries out, telling of a bleeding wound beneath the surface.

"Sam…what I said. Before, when we were…during the…"

"That it should've been me up there, not her?" Sam finishes tonelessly, not even flinching this time – because why should he? It's true, after all, and they both know it.

Dean visibly winces, eyes clouding with pain. But, in keeping with the brave man Sam has from a small child looked up to and admired, he doesn't back down, doesn't deny what he said, doesn't shy away from the terrible truth. "Yeah, that."

"What about it, Dean."

His brother turns on the cold ground so that their knees are touching, and looks at him squarely in the eyes. "Sam, I want to say I didn't mean it, I really do," Dean says quietly. Sam looks up at him, half-hidden from under a mess of damp hair, eyes sad with understanding. "But…the problem is, I _did_ mean it." Dean's face is troubled, twisted and heartbroken with painful honesty. "That wasn't the Mark talking, that was 100% me being an angry, nasty son of a bitch."

Sam nods, quietly understanding; this, more than anything, he _does_ understand – the heartache of loss, of betrayal, he understands. And, more than anyone, he knows Dean is right – it _should_ have been him, not beautiful, young, brilliant Charlie, who was the sacrifice needed to free Dean of the Mark. He, more than anyone, knows this.

Does Castiel bear part of the blame, for not keeping a better watch on her? Possibly, but Sam knows he can't really hold the angel responsible, for Cas asked for help over the phone and didn't get it. Does Charlie herself bear part of the blame, for being foolish enough to leave the safety of the impenetrable wards Sam had so carefully set up for her own protection, when she knew the entire Styne clan were after her blood? Yes, because Sam had done everything in his not inconsiderable power to keep her safe and she had thrown it all away; for what reason, he didn't even really know. He could point fingers all day, round and around, and spread the blame out so that it does not solely rest upon himself. Sam's logical mind knows all of this; and yet, his heart knows that he must bear the final blame, he and no one else.

"It's okay, Dean –"

"It is so not okay, Sam, and if you say it is, I will kick your ass right over Mom's gravestone, swear to God." Sam falls silent, and Dean inhales slowly, measuredly, through his nose in an effort to calm what is still a volatile temper, even tempered by a lack of Enochian branding on his now-clean arm.

"Sam, the problem is – " Dean stares at the small figurine hiding in the shadow of Mary Winchester's stone for a moment, then continues doggedly, "…the problem is that I'm _glad_ it was her up there and not you."

Sam stares in horror, not understanding, as his brother's eyes fill with angry tears – angry, not grieving, he knows the difference from years of Hell torture: these are self-recriminatory tears, borne of remorse and shame. Then his heart clenches painfully in his chest, as Dean clarifies, absently shredding at the cardboard of the six-pack in his agitation.

"Sam, I'm just glad you weren't with her, because I know damn well you would have taken Styne on to let her get away safe and you would never have stood a chance against him – and God help me, Sammy…" Dean's voice breaks slightly on his name, "…what kind of man does that make me, that I'm _glad_ you weren't there with her?"

"It makes you a _man_ , Dean," Sam replies softly. "Not a demon, not a monster. A confused human trying to make sense of bad decisions, just like the rest of us."

Dean snorts, and reaches for the discarded beer bottle. "Anyway…that was a dick thing to say."

Sam is halfway through his third beer and his third night with less than four hours of sleep and his third decade of the universe throwing crap at them while they do their unwitting best to end it for humanity, which is probably why he is too tired to continue to hold any type of grudge against anyone at this point in his life.

Dean is still talking. "…and she'd be kicking my ass for it, so…I'm sorry, Sam."

He smiles, a little sadly, a little fondly, a lot forgivingly. "I know."

They sit in silence for a few minutes, only the deathly stillness around them and a slight breeze breaking the quiet. The sky, permanently gray now that the sun and moon have been obscured by cloud cover for a week straight since their unleashing of the Darkness, turns a darker shade of red toward the west, indicating the sun is still setting, somewhere beyond their sight.

"How was Cas when you left?" Sam asks softly, after a moment.

"Still unresponsive, but hanging in there," Dean replies, just as quietly. "I did hear from Crowley, though…who's still more than a little pissed at you for some reason, do I want to know why?"

"Uh. No?"

Dean rolls his eyes, and moves on, voice softening slightly. "She's not in Hell anywhere, Sam, or in Purgatory for that matter – so whatever 'evil' the Book of the Damned unleashes on those who tap its power, it's not power over anyone's soul, or else it just didn't have any effect on hers. She's bound for Heaven, little brother. Soon as we can figure out how to crack open the Veil, she'll be with her family again."

Sam doesn't even realize how much he needed to hear that until he does, one final reassurance, as a child once more needing his big brother to tell him everything was going to be all right. Grateful tears spring to his eyes as he stares down at what has become their family shrine – one official, legal Winchester grave for the first soldier fallen in their never-ending battle, followed by father and now sister. Someday – he sincerely hopes not, but it is possible – someday, perhaps some relic of theirs will make its way here, a faded testimonial to a family business on the verge of bankruptcy, yet still surviving somehow.

He dashes a final hand across his eyes, and gathers his grief back into the carefully locked room in his soul where it is usually kept, fuel for the battle that lies ahead. For now…for now, he has his brother back, unMarked and whole, and still a stash of booze that Dean paid for and can't drink much of because Dean is driving back to Lebanon, since they have to ditch the clunker Sam stole two hundred miles back.

He reaches for another bottle, ignoring Dean's tolerant shake of the head, and for the first time notices the brand. Blue Moon – one they've never drunk before, as neither of them have ever been picky about their beer and usually just buy whatever is cheap or closest to the door in the local mini-mart, usually some off-brand local brew.

He quirks a smile, and glances at his brother, who raises his own bottle. "Would've called me sexist if I'd'a got some girly beer, but…" he shrugs.

Sam smiles; leave it to his brother to try and show his sentiment in an alcoholic tribute. "Hail to the Queen of Moons," he says softly, and salutes the small Glinda bobblehead they've carefully hidden nearly out of sight, protected from wind and lawn mowers in the shadows of Mary Winchester's gravestone.

"Give 'em hell, kiddo," Dean echoes hoarsely beside him.

They salute each other and then drink in silence, as an errant streak of lightning – disturbingly red – slits the sky toward the westward horizon.

* * *

 **Deleted Scene (Snippet) III, sometime before this (put out of order because I hate ending on a sad note):**

He shuffles, slipper-soft, over to the table, and thumps dully into the chair in front of the remaining empty bowl and cornflake box. Sam glances up from the newspaper, raises an eyebrow, and then hastily returns to the advertisement section when he sees the dark glare warning him from his brother's still half-asleep face.

Dean works his way halfway through a bowl of cereal and a cup of black coffee before he feels more human, and finally opens his eyes more than halfway.

Then he blinks, as whatever Sam is drinking can only be categorized as a _milkshake_.

Luckily, Sam has had a couple decades of understanding brother-speak from around a mouthful of food, as he deciphers _whafahellshtha_ into the inquiry it is. (The spray of soggy cornflake crumbs and pointed spoon is not so well received, but then again, decades of acclimatization.)

"Frozen coffee drink," Sam says dryly, indicating the new machine taking up way too much precious space on Dean's already limited countertop, an out-of-place futurism of chrome and blinking lights among the mastodons of retro utensils. "You want one?"

"There can _not_ be any real coffee in that squeezy caramel crap," he observes with genuine disgust, tipping the glass to look into its frothy depths.

Sam rolls his eyes, shadowed more and more as each day goes by with no news. "Needed the sugar this morning," he murmurs, and easily evades any further questioning by firing up the machine again. The reason for his continual lack of sleep stands in piles of research and open books all around them, hastily hidden from brotherly eyes under the nearest cabinets, and both of them know the reason for it; one strange, sinister symbol of Enochian burning cheerfully, manically, on his right arm, safely hidden underneath the flannel of his robe.

And if Dean finds himself trying to choke down a slightly scorched cinnamon-hazelnut-something-horrible without throwing up into the sink ten minutes later, then, well. The more Sam practices those puppy-eyes, the safer he's going to be if the Mark decides today is the day…


	4. Deleted Scene 4

**Title** : _Measure My Life in Coffee Cups_  
 **Characters** : Sam & Dean Winchester  
 **Rating** : T for language  
 **Word Count** : 7286  
 **Warnings/Spoilers** : Very vague spoilers for seasons 9&10, and please heed the fact that **I am choosing NOT to warn** in this one, as it would completely ruin the entire story. Anyone who knows me knows what I write and what I hate to write, so I hope you can trust me that it's not going to be overly traumatic, but please heed the fact that I'm choosing not to warn. Takes place at an undetermined time into the future, long after whatever S11 holds. Series end-fic, basically; I'm not giving any other spoilers here so continue at your own risk.

 **A/N:** Fourth and final deleted scene from the above fic, really more a standalone story as it was supposed to revolve around the coffee pot and then took off in a direction I didn't expect, evolving from there. I may eventually polish it and make it a standalone, but I have other commitments first so that could take a while.

* * *

"Why is it that everything we gank has to leak blood and guts and I-don't-even-wanna-know- _what_ -that-is like a mother?"

Sam only grunts in response, saving his energy on hauling the last of the demon corpses – this one, long dead before possession judging by the ripeness, ugh – into the garage and dumping it on the tarp. Dean drops his burden with a disgustingly moist squish, and they turn back into the Bunker.

"So whose bright idea was this, to drop the warding on the Batcave as a _distraction_ for Cas's crazy scheme? Oh, right – yours, genius. Why again do _I_ have to help with the cleanup?"

"You would rather let it take twice as long to get done and have a couple dozen meatsuits lying around to trip over for the next few hours?"

"Good point." Dean's boots skid slightly on a puddle of congealing blood, and his nose wrinkles in disgust. "Dude, this is why we should've gotten a motel room. No Stanley Steemer is gonna touch this place with a fifty-mile pole."

Sam snorts a brief laugh, knocking aside a half-burned – no, just stained from sitting in a pile of dark blood – book with his foot as they make their way back into the Bunker's main rooms. He shakes off the image of phantom flames that dance menacingly in the corner of his eye, and the glow of embers fades into a warm haze of Home as they head into the library. "Drink?"

"Sure." Dean steps over a crumbling chunk of something unidentifiable and thunks down into a chair at the nearest table, catching the glass that's slid across the polished oak with the ease of long practice.

"To a successfully-held fortress?" Sam inquires, a smile quirking his lips.

"Batcave, Sammy. Batcave." Dean grins, and their glasses clink in a chime of victory. A moment later, a dull thud of crystal on wood rings through the room, accompanied by a noise of disgust. "What is this crap!"

Sam blinks, not having drunk from his yet. "It's that same cognac we've been drinking, Dean."

"Well it's gone off or something." His brother makes a hacking noise with his tongue, shuddering. "Blech. I'm gonna go heat up what's left of the coffee."

Sam sniffs the glass, raises an eyebrow, and sets it down untouched; he isn't a fine liquor connoisseur, and anyway it was celebratory – coffee will serve just as well, possibly better, for their purpose since they still have a massive amount of cleanup to do. And ever since Dean bought that new, much fancier coffee machine, Sam's been wanting to try to make an espresso anyway.

Dean is already pouring a cup of the lukewarm brew when he gets to the kitchen, intent upon tossing it into the microwave – never wasteful, either of them, a trait drilled into their heads from childhood – but they both freeze when the lights begin to flicker, nerves already on edge from the day's events. Sam is already moving toward the stash of weapons in the drawer under the sink, when suddenly the coffee maker blinks into life, powering on without being touched.

"Salt. Where's the salt. Were any of those meatsuits still alive when we killed them?"

Sam tosses his brother the closest defense, a canister of flavored sea salt from last night's dinner, and then picks up a cast-iron skillet. "We've got no way of knowing, but – it's a little early for a vengeful spirit to be manifesting, isn't it?"

Dean twists the top off the canister with a little scowl of reluctance. "Dude, you know how expensive this stuff is at Whole Foods?"

The coffee maker's lights blink cheerfully at them, and then the programmable LED screen flashes a few times – but nothing else happens. The lights stop flickering, the tang of ozone in the air dissipates.

Both look around cautiously, before turning back to each other; after so many years, they can tell when a ghostly presence has left the room – left the building.

The coffee maker whistles once, blinks, and then powers down, falling silent.

They stand there for a moment, staring at it in the quiet. Then –

"What. The hell. Does this thing, like, send out a homing beacon for ghosts trapped in the Veil or something?"

Sam can only echo the sentiment, and try to ignore the crawling sensation in the back of his mind.

"No, seriously, what the hell!"

The sensation grows a little stronger, a little colder, and he closes his eyes against the headache building deep in his skull, only opening them when fingers are snapped in front of his nose.

For just the fraction of a second Dean's face flickers, wavers into something else – blurry, flickering reds and oranges and why is it that fire seems to follow them all their lives? – then settles back into place. Sam shakes his head to clear it.

"You phonin' home now, ET? Because I've been yelling at you for like ten seconds and you were staring right through my skull."

Sam inhales rapidly, hoping oxygen will chase away the tightness in his chest which makes it hard to breathe. "Sorry, just – felt weird there for a second."

"Weird as in, I ate a bad burrito weird, or weird as in, my coffee pot is maybe trying to communicate with me telepathically weird?"

Sam smiles. "Neither, Dean. Sorry."

Dean looks unconvinced, and shakes his head. He gives the coffeepot one last look, then shrugs, and starts to refill it. "Whatever. Still need my caffeine, possessed coffee machine or not."

Sam blinks, because since when would Dean not be tossing the thing out with the demon corpses to be salted and burned just on general principle?

Something's just…off, here.

* * *

He really notices, when an hour later, he's trying to clean up the library (a huge fight with a half-dozen demons and a squad of hell-hounds had gone down in there) and he discovers – about half of the books he's reshelving are completely empty.

"Whaddyou mean, empty?" Dean asks around a mouthful of half-chewed frozen pizza, while offering him the plate containing the rest.

Sam impatiently waves away the food. "Just that, Dean – the pages in almost half these books are blank!"

Dean shrugs. "So maybe they're just, extra journals or something. For the Men of Letters, y'know."

"No, Dean, I know I've read some of them before, or at least looked at them! But now they're blank, or like they'll have one or two pages with words on them or maybe a diagram and that's it!"

"Dude." Dean swallows, puts the plate of pizza back on the table. "You need to chill. We got all the time in the world to clean this place up. Sit down and eat something, relax for a little while. It'll be better when you go back to it."

Sam stares at his brother in disbelief. "And you!"

"Huh?" Dean glances at him over top of another slice of pizza.

"You – you're just – I mean look at you!" Sam points at the laptop screen, which is currently paused on what he vaguely recognizes is an old Thundercats cartoon. "You're you but you're not! Am I – did I get grabbed by a Djinn or something?"

"Do your symptoms fit those of a Djinn's dream-world, Sam?"

The voice is new, new to the Bunker at least, though not new to them. Dean does not appear to have heard, for he just goes back to his cartoon, headphones back on and totally oblivious. Sam spins around, swallowing down a jolt of well-deserved fear.

Death has never been one of their biggest fans, though he has never been a complete enemy either. However, after Dean Winchester had proven yet again that he would defy Death itself – _him_ self – to save his younger brother, despite the cost to the world, Death had declared never again would he see the Winchester brothers in their lifetimes, and that any attempts at summoning him would have very harsh consequences.

Dean had not killed the Horseman that night so long ago, oh no. Death had been testing the elder Winchester, testing whether there was still a Man beneath the Mark – whether it had finally succeeded in twisting Dean Winchester's soul beyond hope, beyond saving. Whether Death had the option to simply banish the man to a place such as Purgatory, where he could at least have a sort of existence, or whether he must be bound forever in a different dimension, perhaps to replace Death as the eternal Grim Reaper, a fitting end for the inherited curse of the First Murderer.

Death had, frankly, not expected Dean to make the move he had; but then, the Horseman had underestimated the power of a Winchester bond before. These pathetic humans amused him at times; but this time? Dean's actions had not killed Death, but they had banished him for a time from the material plane – wreaking all kind of havoc in the already chaotic spirit world. Such a crime is not easily forgiven, and frankly Death had had quite enough, of both Winchesters.

He'd made that quite clear those years ago, and so to see him now, standing in the Bunker, well. Sam is understandably not quite at ease.

"You needn't fear me, Sam Winchester," the Horseman says dryly. "And your brother cannot see or hear me at present. Time is frozen around us, for the moment."

"Why – why are you here?"

Without moving, the Horseman still appears taller, grimmer. "You appear to be in possession of an incomplete memory, do you not?"

"I wouldn't really know, if it's incomplete, now would I?"

"Hmmph. Cute." Death walks slowly around the room, gestures with his walking-stick at the vaulted ceilings. "Sam, does none of this feel wrong to you?"

Sam swallows hard.

 _"Are you kidding me?"_

 _"No." Blue eyes glint with determination, all-too-human determination. "This is Old Magic, powerful magic, Dean, pre-dating even the Creation. It will work – it must work. So it is written in the Law."_

 _"Cas, there's not any precedent for this; we have no idea –"_

 _"It has worked before, Sam." Castiel's eyes glint with urgency. "In the days of Jesus Christ. After the Crucifixion, the Scriptures say the Veil of the Temple was rent in twain from the top to the bottom, a symbol if you will, of what was about to happen in the less physical realm. It is the Law, Sam – Old Magic is built on the incontrovertible Laws of the universe, set in place by God Himself."_

 _Dean's jaw is set, teeth clenched angrily._

 _"I know you don't like it, Dean – but we are out of options. Less than twelve hours from now, the End will come. And it will come, Dean – there is no delaying it, stopping it, or holding it back this time. We have no choice."_

"Things aren't quite making sense, but they're just little things," Sam says, hands slowly raking through his hair.

"And?"

"I'm not playing twenty questions with you!" Sam snaps, arms folding across his chest.

Death only looks at him, silent, judging. Sam shifts uneasily, knows he is being found wanting. Tries to ignore what feels like steadily increasing heat creeping in from somewhere around him.

 _"Okay, fine, but I'll do it."_

 _"You cannot," is the quiet reply. "The Old Magic states that only with the willing sacrifice of an innocent, will the Veil be torn, and Death defeated. Neither you nor Sam are innocent of blood, of those who remain trapped in the Veil."_

 _"Uh, no offense, Cas, but it's not like you've never killed anybody either," Sam interjects mildly._

 _Castiel nods, unoffended. "This is unfortunately true; however, since Heaven was closed off, and the Veil sealed, I have not taken a life other than that of those vessels inhabited by Angels, whose souls are exchanged straight to Heaven despite all barriers; I have not destroyed a purely human soul since the Veil was sealed shut. By the specifications outlined in the Old Magic, I qualify as innocent."_

 _Sam pinches his forehead. "Besides all of this…Cas, there's no way you'd be able to get that spell performed without the equivalent of sending supernatural flares up, to tell every demon and angel in the entire country where you are."_

 _A small smile curves the angel's lips. "That, among other reasons, is why I need your help."_

Sam puts a hand to his head, feeling suddenly overheated. He shrugs out of his jacket and drops heavily into a chair.

"I don't – I don't get it, why are you making me remember this? What is this?"

"I am doing nothing, Sam. Your mind is finally giving in to the inevitable; it is seeing what most people in your position refuse to see, simply because they are content to live in their fantasy-worlds. You, fortunately or unfortunately, are too intelligent to let that pass."

Sam blinks, shudders as the room suddenly seems wreathed in flames, then flickers back into the familiar cheer of books and fluorescent lights.

"Seeing what, exactly?"

 _"Never thought it would come down to this, did you?"_

 _"No!" he yells back, tossing a demon ten feet down the corridor with an adrenaline-infused fly-kick and then racing through the doorway after his brother, slamming it shut and ramming the bolt home just in the nick of time._

 _He catches up with Dean at the next corner and they keep running, feet pounding in frenetic synchronicity. He absently smiles, fondly recalling childhood races to and from trees and ice cream trucks, and marvels with detached interest that despite his height Dean is still just a bit faster than he is in a sprint._

 _The door behind them shatters, splintering as if it's just plywood._

 _"So much for your precious Men of Letters and their reinforced steel!"_

 _"The wards just inside should give us the time we need."_

 _"They'd better," Dean mutters, and darts off through the side corridor, Sam close at his heels._

His breath catches in his throat, and he turns in his chair to look at his brother, who is snickering at something on the laptop screen, safely inside his own time-bubble and blissfully unaware of the drama unfolding ten feet away.

Sam whirls back around, ignoring the flickering of menacing shadows on each side, and the cold crawling sensation that has been lurking in the back of his mind starts wrapping icy fingers around his heart.

"What happened?" he whispers.

 _Four demons jump them before they can get to the lockdown chamber._

 _Sam gets one of them with the demon knife, reflexes quicker than even thought processes, but the other viciously snaps his arm like a twig and he hits the wall ten seconds later hard enough to see stars. No longer juiced on the Mark of Cain, his brother is still getting accustomed to fighting like a human, and it takes a little longer for him to dispatch the two that went for him first and then fire off enough shots from his Taurus to distract the third long enough for Sam to slide painfully across the hall, grab the knife in his left hand, and hurl it with deadly accuracy into the demon's back. The empty vessel drops like a rock, and an instant later so does Sam, trying not to look at his arm, which dangles at a very unnatural jagged angle from his flannel sleeve._

 _A firm shoulder appears under his other arm. "Hey, hey, c'mon, we got work to do. You don't get to s-sit this one out. I need you." There's something wrong, off, about the voice, and he opens his eyes onto a spinning concrete ceiling, blows out a red-hazed breath to control the pain, and manages to take his weight as they stagger into the Letters' lockdown chamber. Dean slams the heavy door and then doesn't move for a minute, resting all his weight on it, face pinched and paper-white. Sam punches the lockdown code into the keypad by the door with his good hand, swallowing down nausea from the pain in his right. He smiles thinly at the knowledge that at least now, he won't have to worry about the months of physical therapy he normally would have, after a bad compound fracture like this._

 _Then he whirls around, panicking, as Dean slowly topples over onto the floor with a faint moan._

He remembers now – the terrible, hastily-laid plan, to distract the entire supernatural world from Castiel's last-ditch attempt to tear open the Veil between the worlds. It was an insane scheme, based upon ancient lore and more ancient, very Old Magic, a spell and a sacrifice needed literally tear the Veil: to release the souls trapped therein before the build-up of Soul energy – an atomic release of power that had finally, after many years of being trapped, built up to the point of being only a matter of days or hours before the lid blew off the pressure cooker, so to speak – destroyed the earth, heaven, hell, and everything in-between.

And while they were at it, he had pointed out during the unforgettable planning session in the back seat of the Impala one stormy midnight – if they were all most likely going out kamikaze on this thing, why not go ahead and take out anything and _everything_ they could, while they were at it?

 _"Dean!"_

 _He can see as soon as he hits the floor by his brother's side that this isn't good; there's not much he can do to make the next few minutes better – the wound is deep, far too deep (are they using angel blades now?)._

 _"Well this s-sucks," Dean gasps through a coughed spray of blood._

 _Sam sniffles, just a little, and he thinks he's pretty much entitled to at this point. He carefully tucks his broken arm's hand into his jacket pocket to give him some support while he tries to help Dean lean against the wall._

 _"Dude." A hand shoves him away, in the direction of the ancient control board. Green eyes spark sharply at him, unyielding and strong. "Finish the job, Sam."_

 _Dean has never looked more like John._

 _"It'll be okay, Sammy." A small smile, and a white lie they both know, but one Sam will actually forgive this time around._

 _Dean has never looked more like Bobby._

 _Sam stares into his brother's pained eyes for one more second, and then the door shudders beside them with the arrival of what seems to be, and is if all went to plan, the entire forces of topside Hell. _

_"Sammy, go!"_

 _He darts away, trying valiantly to ignore the faint rumbling that is beginning beneath their feet._

Sam can barely breathe now, as his brain and senses begin to remember what his heart has already suspected.

 _Dean, white-faced and shaking – all but his hands, which are steady as they reload with devil's trap bullets. Coughing again, harsh and wet, propped against the wall with a rapidly-spreading bloodstain on his shirt-front._

 _Sam, following the Men of Letters' instructions and meticulously copying the ancient computer language's commands, typing carefully and accurately, jaw clenched, racing against time as the reinforced door shakes, as alarms begin to go off around him one by one – telling him the warding is starting to fail._

 _"Sammy, you got like less than a minute, tops," he hears, a blood-thick rasp, from behind him._

 _"Done," he breathes, and steps back from the computer, hands lifted._

 _Their eyes meet briefly across the room, and then an alarm begins to sound, shrill and deafening – the warding on the door has just failed, and it's only reinforced steel and concrete standing between them now and the very enraged forces of Hell._

 _Dean meets his eyes squarely, shining with pain and pride. "Do it," he says, cocking the Taurus and aiming it at the door._

Death looks at him now, not unkindly, as he drags his hands over his face, sick to his stomach with phantom pain, shivers with half-remembered shock, a flash of that single moment of gut-wrenching fear before…before, he doesn't _know_ what, because people aren't _meant_ to know what happens after that. "You do not appear well, Sam. Surely you were aware, that even the Winchesters would not beat odds such as those."

 _A loophole, an open ending, they had unwittingly left themselves, those years ago. An experiment which had no expiration date on its shelf life – and one which Sam Winchester now had the power to pick up and end, once and for all, their own, final contribution to Castiel's coup-de-grace._

 _Four words of Enochian, spoken deliberately, the final step in a chain of events that had never seen closure._

 _Ka. Na. Ohm. Dar._

 _A faint, startled rumble deep within the earth, nature itself quaking in startled awe, that a mere human would dare to do such a thing._

 _The "great lever," as Metatron called it, flipped, in the span of a second._

 _The world, in shock, watching, as every demonic influence within a hundred-mile radius of a Hell's Gate or crack between the worlds is suddenly reeled back inside, as air being ripped from an airlock, straight into a vaccuum._

 _Hell's doors, closing forever, trapping every inhabitant inside._

 _Forever._

 _He can hear the faint shrieks of enraged demons, deep beneath their feet, discovering their fate far too late._

 _The ones still topside, however, too far from home to be pulled back before the doors closed? Those are going to be the big problem._

Sam looks around, swallows hard. The Bunker walls flicker, like a bad television signal, and he can see between the images now – the still-smoking rubble of timber and stone, the charred remains of burned books and artifacts, the utter destruction that surrounds him, overlays his home with the true images of what his eyes should be seeing, what must be the imprints left in his final memories.

"Oh, God."

 _Dean scrambles painfully on his back across the floor to a more sheltered position behind a desk as the door splinters. Sam punches in the final codes, cancels all possibilities of an override just in case he's taken out before he can pull the levers needed._

 _He spares one glance back at his brother, but Dean's eyes are closed. Sam wonders if he's losing consciousness, or if he's sending out one last prayer to Castiel._

 _He blinks rapidly, and turns back to the keyboard, reaches for the last set of levers._

 _Behind him, the door suddenly gives way beneath a pack of snarling hellhounds, and he hears Dean's gun go off in rapid succession, buying him the five seconds he needs to pull the last lever. Even one-handed, it takes only a second._

 _Mercifully, he doesn't even have time to close his eyes._

"I must say, for a grande finale, ridding the world of nearly every demon, closing the gates of Hell, and re-opening Heaven, all in the blink of an eye? Rather impressive, Sam."

Sam's head is still buried in his shaking hands.

"I brought the Bunker down on our heads," he whispers.

"In order to take out all remaining above-ground demons, since the Third Trial said nothing about removing them back to their place of origin when the Gates closed, yes you did – that was your agreement, correct?"

"And – and Cas?" He looks up, eyes brimming. "Did it work?"

"It did." Death seats himself on the edge of the nearest table. "The Old Magic accepted his sacrifice, and it was powerful enough to rend the Veil. And as there must always be an opposing force to equalize any great application of Magic, then when the gates of Hell were shut, those of Heaven were required to re-open to admit the souls trapped within the Veil. Your research was sound, Sam, and you planned your coup to the moment with precise, strategic efficiency; you did well, you and your brother."

Sam drags his hands across his face slowly, trying to absorb this. "And…do angels – do they really die, like we do – do they have souls?"

Death regards him curiously. "Does it matter?"

"Of course it does!" Sam stands indignantly, paces a tight line across the room and back, stopping in front of the Horseman. "He's family. And – and Dean for one is never gonna stay in Heaven long if he isn't there, I can tell you that much right now."

Death does not appear to be impressed, only mildly exasperated. "Your precious angel was more human than seraph by this time in his unusual life-span, Sam. While not quite as powerful as a human soul, angelic Grace functions much the same for those beings. I have no doubt when things are more settled, Castiel will be arriving into your little world here to talk of his success to your brother and yourself. He will be aware that this is not reality, whether your brother is or not, but he will not be able to betray this fact."

Sam sighs with relief. "So…why are you here, then?" he asks quietly. "Is it because I was still in some weird illusion, caught between our last few hours on Earth and whatever Heaven is trying to generate out of my memory? Is Dean even – is he even really Dean? Or just a copy of him out of my memory? Did I survive the Bunker's self-destruct, am I in a coma somewhere? Or are we haunting the Bunker?"

Death seems to be resisting the urge to roll his eyes. "One question at a time would be preferable, Sam."

"Sorry. Am I – am I dead, then?"

"You are."

Sam swallows; while that was somewhat expected, it's still a little bit of a sickening shock; he suddenly feels a swamping wave of sympathy for all the ghosts they've talked into crossing over throughout the years.

"And Dean?"

"He is as well, Sam," the Horseman answers quietly. "The Men of Letters were quite resourceful, and extremely paranoid. Nothing, supernatural or otherwise, had a prayer of surviving their self-destruct measures."

"Okay." Sam blows out a slow, measured breath of decidedly not-panic. "Then…are we haunting the Bunker?"

Death favors him with a thin smile. "No, Sam. For once in your life, you were both actually cooperative with my reapers. Much to their collective shock, I might add; they were drawing lots to see who would _not_ have the honor to come and collect your souls."

Sam's laugh borders on hysterical. "We're in Heaven, then?"

"If you wish to call this construct that, yes."

"So why are you here?"

"Simply put, because you are too smart for Heaven's pretty little fantasies, Sam. You would have seen through them – if not today, then tomorrow, or next week, or perhaps not until next year or next decade, but eventually you would have seen through them. Without proper guidance, the place is not as meticulous as it used to be in observing painstaking detail, nor does it have the same opinions regarding its occupants as it once did. Most of them now, do not even realize they have died, Sam – many of them simply go on, believing they are still living their lives, never realizing they are no longer on Earth."

"That's what they wanted us to think," Sam says quietly, glancing back at his brother.

"Indeed. However, they, like so many before them, underestimated the Winchesters to their detriment." Death sighs tolerantly. "Before long you would have unraveled your own heaven and taken half of their structural integrity with you, in addition to destroying your brother's sanity in all probability, tethered as his more fragile soul is to your stronger one."

Sam blinks. "Wait, what?"

"No man receives the key to the Darkness and emerges unscathed, Sam," Death replies gravely. "The Mark draws its power from the soul, the reason why it holds the power to turn a human soul into demon after death. Though your brother was freed of the Mark those years ago, when it was destroyed it took with it part of your brother's soul, ripped away like a portion of a missing limb and never to be returned. You, and your own soul's power, have filled that Void – one of the many reasons, why the two of you have been predestined since before my Time to be soul-mates."

Sam looks back at his brother, who is still smiling at the laptop screen, blithely unaware of the drama around him, and his heart twists in his chest. "Is that why he can't tell anything is wrong with this place?" he asks quietly.

"That is part of it, Sam. The other, is simply that if you will recall from your first, more disastrous trip here – Dean's soul has a very simplistic concept of Heaven, consisting if I remember correctly of crustless sandwiches and childhood hugs," Death answers dryly. "The soul is a force of the universe built on base fundamentals; it does not change with time. Your brother's soul requires nothing more complicated from his Heaven than that which you see around you."

Sam smiles, a little sadly, a little fondly. A home, family, entertainment, an occasional good hunt – he can see all too clearly, how Dean could live forever in such a place, perfectly content to never question its validity.

Sam, however, now that he has half-seen the truth…he may not be able to live with that knowledge. Nor may Heaven permit him to, if Death's presence is any indication – he seems to be the sole remaining Force in the universe capable of defying any type of supernatural influence, given recent past events.

"So…you're here to, what, banish me because I can disrupt that balance, because I see the truth? Send me to wherever you meant to send Dean back when he had the Mark?" Sam swallows hard, hands suddenly clammy. "Another dimension or something?"

"My gods, you humans do watch far too much melodramatic television," is the dry response. "Sam, I am only here to offer you a choice."

"Your last choice to one of us involved Dean lopping my head off with your scythe, so excuse me if I don't find that overly comforting."

"Touché. But this choice, is quite simple. Sam, I am capable of altering memories, in a far more delicate and permanent manner than that patchwork Wall I erected to keep out your time spent in the Cage. That was what you would call a rush job, and there was a far greater permeation of memory to alter. What I propose would be far simpler, and far more permanent."

Sam crosses his arms, eyes narrowing. "Like the Matrix. You're asking me if I want to choose the blue pill."

Death's thin lips quirk at the corner. "If you prefer that analogy."

"You can, what – make it so that I just think that we're continuing on with our lives?"

"Correct. You, and Dean – even your precious angel – would simply continue to live out what you believe is a normal life, here in this construct of the home you created on Earth. You would never realize you were actually in Heaven, Sam – because we both know, neither you nor your brother ever really wanted to end up here; it was simply the lesser of several evils, was it not?"

Sam snorts. "You've got it right, there." He looks back at Dean again, and frowns. "Dean would never figure it out as it stands now, would he?"

"I have no way of knowing that, but the angels' research so far does not show it likely. You have both been here for nearly a year, and he has shown no signs of suspicion. Given what we know of the remaining tenets of his soul, it is highly doubtful he ever will."

Sam staggers back a step, eyes wide. "A year?!"

"You see why it might benefit you to simply not know you are in Heaven, Sam. Unfortunately, you and your brother have well exceeded the maximum number of reincarnations and resurrections allotted to any human in one lifetime; you have more than upset the natural order, and it is time for you both to move on – and move on you must. It is up to you, however, what form that takes."

"What if someday Dean figures it out, though, and I've 'taken the pill'?"

"Then the angels will have to deal with that if and when it happens, Sam. The chances are quite slim, I assure you. Unless, of course, you would prefer I alter both your memories permanently."

They've been down this road before, thank you, and even now Sam is not about to cross that line. "No."

If he lets Dean know the truth, even if his brother believes him, then he knows what Dean's answer will be – he'd never agree to take the pill, never wanted to end up in Heaven in the first place. He'd always be searching for a way back. And the angels would not appreciate his efforts, might indeed punish it severely; Sam suspects they have long ago worn out their welcome, and have only ended up here by virtue of the fact that Hell emphatically does not want Alistair's prize pupil, and Dean is guaranteed a place here as the Righteous Man. Sam is just tethered to him by a soul-bond, apparently.

Death is right; their time is done.

But if Sam lets Death alter his memories, and then _Dean_ does remember some day – what will Heaven do to his brother then? Can he leave his brother's mind and fate in the hands of some cold, indifferent angels? Even Cas will have no sway over any of them in centuries future, should Dean stumble on the truth, or should he just get bored and start suspecting their lives are too good to be true – it's happened before, with the Djinn, and what if it happens again?

Can Sam take that chance, that he won't be able to help if that does happen? He knows what it did to Dean in that Djinn-world, that they weren't close, and if this soul-bond thing is even more important here, then can he really chance doing more damage to it on the off chance that they'll have a couple centuries of blissful ignorance?

Is it really so bad, knowing the truth, and just ignoring it? Isn't that really what having a home and family is – knowing the truth, but living with it out of love?

"Sam? The angels may tolerate my occasional visit for the sake of keeping order, but they will not permit me to overstay my welcome here."

Sam exhales, painfully aware of the destruction around him and the fact that he cannot simply just will it to turn back into the beautiful gleaming wood and comfortable furniture that he called Home on Earth, now that he knows the truth. He will always be able to see the true forms of this construct-world, perhaps may get better at camouflaging them to himself, but will always have to see the damage.

But there is no real choice here.

"I won't take the chance," he says quietly, sadly. "I can't, and I won't. Even if we got a few decades, a few centuries of ignorance, of peace – I can't chance that Dean will someday figure it out and I not be able to help him. I won't trust the angels not to screw with his head if that happens – I need to be able to be there if he thinks he's going crazy."

Death regards him in silence for a moment, eyebrows raised, until Sam is almost ready to squirm under the scrutiny.

"What?" he finally demands, irritated.

"Nothing," the Horseman intones dryly. "Other than the fact that that is nearly to the word, precisely what he said about you."

Sam freezes, eyes narrowing. "What?"

Death vents a put-upon sigh. "Are you quite satisfied now?" he asks loudly, apparently to no one in particular, while at the same time waving his walking-stick in the general direction of Dean's frozen time-bubble.

A slight shimmering is the only indication Sam has before his brother's chuckle finally is audible again, though it isn't but a moment before Dean glances up, sees the Horseman standing across the room, and drops his pizza slice straight onto the laptop keyboard in dismayed shock.

"Something you want to tell me, Dean?" Sam asks dryly, as the headphones come off.

"What the hell is this?" Dean asks hotly, bolting across the room.

"Did you really think that Sam would not draw the same inevitable conclusions you did from his surroundings?" Death asks incredulously.

"Wait, you figured it out before I did?"

Dean looks at him tolerantly, pats his shoulder. "Dude, I've been trapped in a Djinn's dream-world twice and sleep-walked in one, you've never done either – I know what it feels like. This ain't right."

"Wait, so –" Sam turns, fixes Death with a look that has made crossroads demons renege on contracts. "What is this?"

The Horseman sighs, and glances upward. Sam has a feeling he's not fixing that annoyed look at the ceiling, but rather at the metaphorical eyes that are probably watching them right now. The man then looks between the two of them and gives what is probably supposed to be a placating gesture. "No one wishes to see the two of you unhappy here, Sam," he says quietly. "But the fact remains, you have upset the natural order, and you no longer have the option to return to life as you knew it."

"So you're, what, running us through simulations until we can't see through the Matrix anymore or one of us lets you wipe both our memories?" Dean interjects, cutting straight to the point.

The lack of contradiction speaks louder than a denial would have.

Fairly shaking with indignation and the still recent knowledge he's acquired as to their fate, Sam barely feels himself being steered toward the kitchen by a firm hand on his shoulder.

A distinct rumble of thunder from somewhere outside speaks very clearly of the angels' opinions of their lack of respect for authority in this place.

Dean's middle finger over his shoulder as they disappear through the vaulted archway even more clearly shows his opinion of said authority.

Once their footsteps die away, there is only an ominous, portent silence. Then, a flutter of new, interdimensional-wavelength manifestations rustles the Horseman's long coat, as smallish wings make a somewhat shaky landing.

"That went well," Castiel says brightly.

Death resists the urge to roll his eyes for two very good reasons. One, it is an appallingly human trait; and two, he must remember that newly-deceased seraphs are like children, reborn into an almost cherub-like state of energy which, although highly annoying, is but unintentionally so.

"You are not supposed to be here," he answers wearily.

"How am I to learn what to alter in the next rotation without regrouping after each?"

"Oh, for –" He halts, takes a deep breath, and is grateful once again that he need only deal with his more somber reapers on a daily basis. "Are you even certain you can continue to do this without being caught by your superiors?"

He receives a withering look that is entirely out of place on such an innocent face – that is purely Castiel, half-human, and a very belligerent human at that.

"My apologies."

This inane plan, hatched of a mutual realization that the world may yet have need of the Winchesters in centuries to come, has come to be one of his more amusing pastimes – and as this annoying little cherub is the one taking the brunt of the risk, in hiding clues time after time when the Winchester Heaven is reset, Death personally has nothing to lose in continuing the charade.

"Be careful, Castiel," he admonishes, preparing to leave. The increasing rumble of thunder tells him that the Winchesters Twain have but minutes before their Heaven will be reset once again, this time with better detail, the powers which be having learned more from this encounter.

The young angel beams, blue eyes bright with renewed excitement, before he disappears from sight with a flutter of new wings.

Death takes himself away before the door breaks down in a burst of light.

Angels are such ridiculously dramatic creatures; it is no wonder his reapers choose most of the time to live in the far more serene, in-between world of the Veil.

* * *

"Why is it that everything we gank has to bleed and ooze and just – _yuck_ , all over the place?"

Sam only grunts, saving his energy on hauling the last of the demon corpses – this one, long dead before possession judging by the ripeness – into the garage and dumping it on the tarp. Dean drops his with a disgusting squish, and they turn back into the Bunker.

"So whose bright idea was this, to drop the warding on the Batcave as a _distraction_ for Cas's crazy scheme? Oh, right – yours, genius. Why again do _I_ have to help clean up?"

"Because you're the one who insisted we just _had_ to try the new demon bomb recipe you found in the Letters' archive last month," Sam mutters, flailing to keep his balance in a puddle of congealing blood before righting himself with a hand against the wall.

"Heh." Dean's boots skid slightly as they round the corner toward the kitchen. "Was pretty awesome, though."

Sam snorts a brief laugh, knocking aside a book with his foot as they make their way back into the Bunker's main rooms. "Drink?"

"Coffee," Dean corrects him, stumbling toward the coffee maker. "Tired'a this same crap all the time. You'd think the Men of Letters would have a more expanded liquor palate, being all sophisticated librarian types."

Dean's sniffing the half-empty bag of coffee beans to judge their freshness when the lights begin to flicker. Nerves already on edge, Sam is soon moving toward the stash of weapons in the drawer under the sink, when suddenly the coffee maker blinks into life, powering on without being touched.

"Somehow I'm guessing that's not Kevin back for a house call. Were any of those meatsuits still alive when we killed them?"

Sam tosses his brother the closest thing they have to their usual kosher salt, a canister of flavored sea salt from last night's dinner, and then picks up a cast-iron skillet. "We've got no way of knowing, but – it's a little early for a vengeful spirit to be manifesting, isn't it?"

Dean twists the top off the canister with a pout. "Dude, you know how expensive this crap is at Giant Eagle?"

The coffee maker's lights blink cheerfully at them, and then the programmable LED screen flashes a few times – but nothing else happens. After a moment, the electric charge in the air dissipates, the machine powers down without another incident.

Both look around cautiously, before turning back to each other; after so many years, they can tell when a ghostly presence has left the room – left the building.

"Ooookay. That's weird..."

"So, I'm thinking we go out tonight," Dean says loudly. "That new steakhouse in town put their menu up online, and guess what? Eight kinds of steak, Sammy. _Eight_. There's a parmesan sirloin and a baked potato with my name on it, and some weirdo chef salad with yours, I won't even make fun of you for it if you just get moving."

Sam grins at Dean's rambling enthusiasm and follows his brother out of the kitchen willingly enough. But at the doorway he pauses, and glances back for just a moment.

The coffee maker powers on with a soft whir. The LED screen lights up, a muted reddish glow softly lighting that shadowy corner of the kitchen.

The words **HELLO SAM** scroll across the screen.

"Five minutes and I'm leavin' your slow ass here, Samantha!"

Sam quirks a slow smile. Glances around carefully, and turns off the light.

Their day will come.

And until it does, well. There are worse things, than being undercover agents in a world where you can't die.

Because, after all…there's a part of that, in every little boy's Heaven.


End file.
